I Wish I was a Growed Up
by Disneymagic
Summary: Sammy has just figured out that life isn't fair for his older brother, Dean. He wishes there was some way he could help. When his wish comes true their lives are changed forever. AU, hurt!Dean, sick!Dean, protective!Sam, reverse de-aging Dean 8, Sam 4&24
1. The Wish

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that.**

**A/N1: This idea came to me the other day and wouldn't leave me alone, even though I'm still working on another story. I'm going to attempt to write both stories at the same time, kind of a challenge to myself since the stories require different mind-sets, this one being a wee!chester and teen!chester fic and AU while the other is canon Season 1. For those of you reading The Dope that we Smoke, never fear, I will finish that story and plan on alternating one chapter of each until both are done.**

**A/N2: Those of you who think John Winchester was a good father doing the best he could under terrible circumstances may not like my portrayal. He's not deliberately cruel, but he is negligent and he treats his sons as though they are soldiers, not little boys. Just remember this story is AU.**

**A/N3: I've classified this story as AU because Sammy at four years old already knows that monsters are real and he knows what his Daddy is doing when he leaves them.**

**Thank you for indulging me in my experiment and I hope you enjoy.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**by Disneymagic**

**Chapter 1 The Wish**

Sammy is smart for his age, at least that's what Daddy says and he supposes Daddy would know, 'cause he's a grown up and he's Daddy and Daddy knows everything.

The thing is...Daddy's not around very much and when he is, he's distracted. He has little time to spare for either of his children, neither 4 year old Sammy nor 8 year old Dean.

But Sammy's not complaining, 'cause he has his older brother, Dean, to help him and take care of him when Daddy's away. He does worry, however, about the fact that Dean doesn't have anyone to take care of him and that's just not fair.

Sammy's at that age where fairness is important, not just a vague concept, but the way life is meant to be. If Dean gets one cookie, Sammy should get one cookie too. If Dean gets new shoes, Sammy should get new shoes also. If Sammy has someone he trusts to always look out for him, to care about him, and make everything all right, Dean should too. Life should be fair and it hasn't even crossed his mind yet that sometimes...it just isn't.

When this inequity first occurs to him, Sammy begins keeping a mental list of the injustices as he perceives them.

On Wednesday, both Dean and Sammy have a training session with Daddy. Training sessions are when Daddy teaches them new hand-to-hand combat moves and drills them on previous lessons. They happen several times a week whenever Daddy has time for them. The rest of the days, he expects them to practice the moves without him.

This day the session goes on forever. Sammy is perceptive, even at four years old, he sees how the training goes. Where Daddy goes easy on Sammy due to his size, he's relentless with Dean. Daddy says he's getting ready to leave on a hunt and he could be gone a long time. He needs Dean to step up his training so he'll be ready to take on more responsibility for keeping the family safe.

Dean eagerly complies, throwing himself wholeheartedly into the lesson, wistfully watching Daddy's face for any signs of approval or the slightest hint of praise. By the end of the session Dean can barely move, muscles worked to their limits, face flushed with exertion. Sammy watches with a sadness he doesn't quite understand as Dean shuffles after Daddy into the apartment when the lesson finally ends.

Once they reach the living room, Daddy flops down into the tattered recliner, grabs a book from the side table, and props his feet up on the coffee table. Sammy heads over to the TV, turns around to ask Dean if he wants to watch with him, and sees him standing uncertainly next to Daddy's recliner. Embarrassment and need shine starkly in his eyes, it's almost painful to watch. Giving in to his need, Dean climbs stiffly into Daddy's lap. Startled, Daddy says, "Dean, what are you doing? I'm trying to read. Go find something to do." So, Dean gets off Daddy's lap, head down, looking way too much like a chastised puppy. He settles for the sofa in front of the TV, won't meet Sammy's eyes, but doesn't complain when Sammy climbs up next to him and snuggles in close.

On Thursday, Daddy is too busy doing research for the upcoming hunt to help Dean with his homework. Dean gives up on the essay he was supposed to write on a famous inventor and takes Sammy to the park instead, pushes him on the swing, catches him at the end of the slide, helps him climb the jungle gym. Sammy is thrilled to have Dean's attention and company at the park, but he wishes he was old enough to help Dean with his homework.

On Friday, Dean's teacher hands out lollipops to all the students in her class. There are only enough for each child to have one. When Dean gets home from school he takes the lollipop out of his pocket only to see the sheer longing on Sammy's face. Dean hands the sucker over without a word. Sammy offers to share, but Dean says, "Ewwww, I don't want your germs, squirt."

On Saturday, Daddy leaves to go on the hunt. Dean gets the usual lecture, "Don't let anyone into the apartment, keep the salt lines down, and take care of your little brother." This time Daddy adds, "I don't know when I'll be back. I'll call you when I know more." Dean mopes the rest of the day, fixes Sammy a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but doesn't eat more than a bite or two of his own sandwich. Daddy being gone is always harder on Dean then it is on Sammy 'cause Sammy can snuggle up to Dean if he gets scared, but Dean has no one to protect him, so he's not allowed to get scared...ever.

On Sunday, a small carnival pulls into town and sets up in the parking lot of the shopping center right down the street from their apartment. They see it on their way to the grocery store to buy milk with the money Daddy left in the money jar.

"Can we go to the carnival Dean, please." Sammy begs with big round eyes and clasped hands. He knows they don't have any extra money for rides, or cotton candy, or games, but since he's stuck inside the apartment most of the time, 'just looking around' seems like a wonderful treat.

Dean hesitates a moment, then smiles ruefully. "OK, squirt, but just to look and you're not allowed to ask me for anything once we get over there." With a self deprecating shake of the head he adds under his breath, "You know I won't be able to say 'no' if you ask."

Sammy cants his head to the side in puzzlement but is quick to promise.

The riot of colors, smells, and sounds is overwhelming. The merry-go-round with it's brightly painted horses and cheerful music, the concession stands selling everything from hot dogs and pizza to ice cream and funnel cakes that smell so good his mouth begins to water, and the stall with the balloons and the carnival worker holding darts, enticing passersby to try their hand at popping the balloons and winning a prize, all vie for his attention. It's a bit intimidating what with all the people who are so much bigger than him. He presses his tiny hand into Dean's larger one, scoots so close that their legs brush together as they walk. Eyes poping and mouth open, he tries to take it all in, savors the experience like only a four year old can, heart light and full of wonder.

They reach the end of the fairway and are just about to head back when Sammy sees her. An old woman with dozens of bangles around her wrists and a long flowing skirt stands outside of a small red and white stripped tent. A sign over the tent proclaims "Fortunes Told by Madam Giselle' in flourishing script. She's gazing at them intently with piercing blue eyes as though she sees right into their very souls. Sammy's breath catches in his throat when she beckons them over, her multicolored scarves catching in the slight breeze.

Shaking his head, Dean backs up a step, pulling Sammy along with him, "We don't have any money, sorry."

"You don't need money. You've already earned what I have to give you." There's something about the gypsy woman, she exudes almost an aura of kindness.

Dean must feel it too because he begins to walk forward, but ever the protective older brother, he shifts Sammy so that he's behind instead of beside him.

Upon reaching the gypsy, she motions for them to enter her tent. Dean pulls Sammy around and in front of him, grasping his little shoulders tightly, before preceding the woman into the small enclosed area.

A table and two folding chairs take up the entire floor space inside the tent. Sammy's attention is immediately drawn to the crystal ball sitting in a nest of purple velvet in the middle of the table. Smoke churns endlessly within its depths and Sammy startles when the gypsy woman begins to talk, so intent had he been on the seething mist.

Lowering herself into one of the two chairs, the woman begins, "When I was born I was bestowed with one wish...only one...and I was forbidden to use it for myself or anyone I love. I've been waiting to find the right person to give the wish to. All my life I've watched and waited, traveling through untold numbers of towns, seeing myriad people. I'd almost given up on finding anyone worthy, but here you are...two of you. There's only one wish, so you'll have to decide who gets it." She looks expectantly at first Dean and then Sammy, attentively awaiting their choice.

Sammy knows what his wish would be, but he had promised Dean he wouldn't ask for anything while they were here, so he smiles up at his older brother, content to let Dean decide.

"Let the squirt here make a wish." Dean says, not like he's making a huge sacrifice, but more like he's humoring both Sammy and the gypsy woman.

Sammy's grin widens in pure delight.

The woman nods. "OK, you must hold my hand and make your wish out loud." She holds one weathered hand toward him and he takes it without hesitation.

At her prompting wink he makes his wish. "I wish I was a growed up whenever Dean needs help 'cause he always helps me and no one ever helps him and it's just not fair." He finishes his wish and gives his big brother an adoring look.

Dean's mouth drops open in astonishment, then he blinks rapidly a few times before finding the hot dog stand across the way of all-absorbing interest.

The gypsy woman gives his hand a squeeze. "It's done." She says simply, releasing her hold.

He doesn't feel any different. Nothing has changed as far as he can tell. It's a bit of a disappointment, really. A lot of build up and no action.

Then Dean starts thanking Madam Giselle and pulling him out of the tent.

"What was up with that wish, Sammy?" What happened to the good ol' standby wishes like money, fame, or in your case, candy?" Dean is laughing now, teasing, and Sammy doesn't really know what to say, so he doesn't say anything at all.

He's quiet the rest of the way to the store and back home.

He knows that Dean forgets about the wish almost immediately, discards it as as strange encounter with a daffy old woman, but Sammy thinks about the wish a lot over the next couple of days as they go about their normal 'Daddy is away' routine.

Dean fixes the meals, keeps the house clean, reads to Sammy, tucks him in at night, all the things that parents do for their kids. Sammy tries to help out where he can. They watch a lot of TV, play cards, kick a ball around outside. Dean ditches school, can't really leave Sammy at home all by himself, practices his combat moves, teaches Sammy how to read, how to tie his shoe laces, how to draw the protection sigils.

It's not until several days later that the symptoms start to appear.

First there's the sneezing, lots and lots of sneezing. Then there's the runny nose, the sniffling and blowing into toilet paper 'cause they don't have any tissues. Next comes the sore throat only noticeable to Sammy when he sees Dean wince every time he swallows. Through all this Dean continues to take care of Sammy even though he moves slower and has to sit down to rest frequently.

That night, Dean sleeps fitfully if at all. Sammy wakes up several times to Dean's restless shuffling, in the next bed, even thinks he hears Dean whimper once.

In the morning Sammy finds Dean huddled miserably in his bead, head in his hands.

"What's a matter, Dean?" He asks, climbing up into the bed with his ill sibling.

"Sammy, you need to stay away from me or you'll get sick too." Dean rasps while making a feeble shooing gesture with one hand.

"But I wanna take care of you. What should I do?" He hates seeing Dean like this, hates not knowing how to make it better.

"You can't take care of me, squirt. You're too little. Don't worry, I'll be fine." Dean tries to smile reassuringly, ends up coughing and holding onto his throat, eyes watering with the pain.

It's not fair. Sammy hops off the bed and frowns back at Dean. "I'm not too little."

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he loses his sense of equilibrium. The room starts to spin, up and down trade places, and he has to put his hand against the bed to keep from falling over. Unfortunately, the bed chooses that moment to shrink and when he reaches out to steady himself, he has to lean over before his hand finds the mattress.

Shocked, he stares down at Dean only to see his own expression mirrored back at him from Dean's face. Wait a minute, he's staring _down_ at Dean. He always has to look _up_ at Dean, never _down_.

He holds one of his hands in front of his face, turns it over to examine the back. Once chubby fingers are now slender and long, once smooth, soft skin is now tough with muscles bunching as he flexes the digits. His hand is now freakin' huge!

Both hands come up to investigate his face, run through his hair. He looks down at his arms, body, legs, everything has grown, including his clothes, which would be a good thing except that he was in his PJ's when this happened, so now he's wearing giant-sized footie PJ's. He's a giant! No, not a giant, a grown up!

"My wish, Dean! It's my wish! I'm a grown up." With awe he realizes that his wish encompasses more than just the physical aspects of being a grown up. He also has the mental and emotional capacity of a grown up. He knows everything now that he will know as a...twenty-four year old...his adult mind supplies, but without the experience of learning it. For example he knows how to shoot a crossbow, but he doesn't remember taking the lessons in order to learn, doesn't remember the hours of practice in order to get good at it. It's awesome!

One look at Dean though and his euphoric mood evaporates. His brother is regarding him with an expression nearing horror, face completely drained of color. This wish is supposed to be about helping Dean, not scaring him to death.

To be continued.

**A/N4: Please let me know if you like it, otherwise how will I know if there's enough interest to continue?**


	2. The First Time

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that.**

**A/N1: Thank you everyone reading and especially those reviewing. You rock my world!**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**by Disneymagic**

**Chapter 2 The First Time**

"Hey, Dean. It's just me. I'm still Sammy." Smiling shyly, he sits on the edge of his brother's bed.

Dean recoils from him as though he were a venomous snake. "No, Sammy, no, this isn't right. Change back." His eyes are wild with fright, his hands clutch at his bedspread.

"Dean, it's OK. Really, don't be scared." Sammy beseeches holding his hands out to his terrified brother.

"Sammy, You just...I saw you...change back...change back...please." Dean is panting now, desperate.

Dean looks like he's about to cry and Sammy doesn't know what to do. This isn't what he'd had in mind when he made his wish.

"That's right, you saw me change, you heard me make the wish, you know it's still just me, don't you?" Sammy questions, hoping to persuade his brother that everything is going to be all right.

"Yeah, but...change back, Sammy." Dean pleads.

By taping into his adult logic, Sammy comes to the conclusion that this isn't about Dean being afraid of him, it's about Dean being afraid of a situation which is so far out of his control it's thrown him into orbit. Dean's role as big brother is being threatened and he probably feels as though his whole world is shattering.

"I don't think I can change back, not until you don't need me like this anymore. The wish was for me to be a grown up when you need one to help you. As soon as you're better, I'll probably turn back. So, all you have to do is let me help you." There, that puts the entire situation back in Dean's hands, giving him control over the outcome.

Sure enough, color begins to return to Dean's face and he relaxes into the bedding.

His next exhale turns into a coughing fit, however, that leaves him gasping for breath and holding his throat again.

"Right, so we have sore throat, coughing, sneezing and runny nose. Any other symptoms?" Sammy walks briskly to the bathroom to check the medicine cabinet for children's cold medication, anxious to act before he loses what little progress he's just made with his distraught brother. They have a first aid kit in the kitchen, but the garden variety cold medicine is normally kept in the bathroom, if they have any. Yatzee! He finds a half-full bottle of children's cold and flu medicine.

When he walks back into the bedroom holding up the bottle of medicine triumphantly, Dean starts shaking his head. "Nuh uh, Sammy. I don't wanna take that."

"Why not? It'll make you feel better." Sammy coaxes.

The straight forward logic doesn't work with his stubborn brother who just shrinks away from him again.

He doesn't want to force himself on Dean, that's not what his wish is about. Dean is rebelling against the situation and still feeling threatened. A little reverse psychology might be just the thing.

"OK, Dean. If you don't want my help I'll just go watch a little TV, but if you need me, I'm here."

He watches his 'big' brother carefully, sees the flickers of doubt, fear, and curiosity cross his face. Taking the medicine, he purposefully turns toward the door and leaves the bedroom. The fear he notices in Dean's eyes makes him want to pause and console his brother, he doesn't though, trusting that Dean's curiosity will win out over stubbornness in the end. Although he doesn't want Dean to be afraid, his fear of being left alone might also work in Sammy's favor and allow Dean to accept his help.

"Call if you want anything." Sammy adds once he reaches the doorway.

First things first, he needs to find some more appropriate clothes. The footie pj's are just not cutting it. In Daddy's...Dad's...room, he finds some sweat pants and a tee shirt that were left behind and quickly changes into them.

In the living room with the set turned on at a low volume so he can hear any noise from the bedroom, no matter how quiet, he settles onto one side of the couch. Rustling sounds from the bedroom indicate that Dean is trying in vain to find a comfortable spot on the bed. A wet, hacking cough is the next sound he hears, followed by a juicy sneeze and more tossing and turning.

Sammy is just about to give in to the overwhelming urge to rush back into the bedroom, forcing his suffering brother to submit to some coddling, when he hears the shuffling of feet coming into the living room. He looks over nonchalantly into fever-bright eyes, careful not to overreact to Dean's presence next to the sofa. The fever is cataloged along with Dean's other symptoms and Sammy adds the thermometer to the list of supplies he needs. With a simple nod, he goes back to watching the TV, secretly holding his breath, waiting to see what Dean will do next.

It takes him a while to decide. Sammy can sense the wheels turning in Dean's feverish mind as he stands uncertainly with one hand resting lightly on the back of the couch. He wills his brother to give in to his obvious need for comfort, to abandon his pride, just for a little while.

While watching Sammy suspiciously, like he expects him to spontaneously combust or something, Dean slides into the corner of the sofa, as far away from Sammy as he can get. He pulls his legs into his chest, wraps his arms lightly around them. Sammy can see shivers racking Dean's small frame, adds a blanket to his growing list.

Now that Dean has made a tentative effort, Sammy puts the first stage of operation 'help Dean whether he likes it or not' into action.

I'll be right back. Stay here." He points to the couch while getting up to quickly gather the supplies from his list: blanket from the closet, thermometer from the first aid kit, ice chips from the freezer, orange juice from the fridge, and saltines from the cupboard.

He has to make several trips back and forth. Dean's eyes follow him uneasily, but he doesn't move from his balled up position on the couch except to cough and sniffle into his sleeve. Sammy adds toilet paper to his list and detours to the bathroom for a roll.

Supplies gathered, Sammy approaches Dean cautiously, like he's a wild rabbit poised for flight. That image makes him snicker 'cause this is Dean we're talking about and his brother never runs away from anything, even when he's scared. Sammy thinks this might be the exception that proves the rule though. The kid hasn't had anyone take care of him since he was four years old, probably doesn't remember what it feels like, doesn't know how to react to it. And that's just too sad to think about.

Dean's brows furrow at the snicker and he watches Sammy intently, but he doesn't run. In fact, he freezes as Sammy moves closer, only his eyes following his sibling's progress.

When he's close enough, Sammy wraps the blanket around Dean's shoulders and tucks it in around his drawn up legs and arms.

"Does that feel better?" He asks, hoping to get Dean comfortable enough to start talking to him again.

All he gets is a reserved nod. Heck, it's better than nothing. He'll take what he can get at this point.

Next he holds out the cup of orange juice. "The vitamin C will be good for you and the cool juice might make your throat feel better."

In order to take the cup, Dean has to unravel one arm and hand from around his legs and blanket. He lets his legs fall into a more normal sitting position and sips from the cup. So far so good, Sammy congratulates himself.

While Dean is occupied with the juice, Sammy sits next to him on the couch, shunning his previous spot on the far edge in favor of one right beside his brother. Dean doesn't object and Sammy's pleased by the positive sign. It's amazing how small his brother appears to him now, the top of Dean's head barely reaches the midpoint of his bicep when they're sitting side by side like this. Conversely, he must seem humongous to Dean.

"Let's see if you have a temperature." Holding up the thermometer, Sammy waits for Dean to open his mouth and places the thermometer under his tongue.

All things considered, Dean is handling this really well. Either that or he wants to be taken care of more than he's willing to admit.

They wait a couple of minutes and then Sammy's earlier suspicion is confirmed with a reading of 101.4 No wonder Dean's having trouble getting comfortable, a fever that high means chills and body aches. The medicine will help with that if he can just get his obstinate brother to take some.

Grabbing the medicine bottle off the coffee table in front of him, Sammy gives it another go. "Dean, you need to take some of this medicine. You'll feel so much better if you do."

"No, I can't." Dean turns his head away and purses his lips as if daring Sammy to try and make him.

"Why not?" He can't keep the exasperation out of his tone.

Dean sighs and it's such a world-weary sound coming from such a small boy that Sammy's insides flip over in sympathy. "I'm saving it for the next time you get sick. Dad doesn't always leave enough money for medicine and food when he goes on a hunt."

A kick in the gut would have been a lot less painful than listening to his brother's confession. The very idea of eight year old Dean Winchester being forced to choose between buying food or medicine brings the sting of tears to his eyes, tears he dares not let his brother see.

"You need to take this medicine now so you can get better or I won't be able to change back. You don't want me to be stuck like this, do you?" Sammy knows he's playing dirty, exploiting his brother's only weakness. He's totally fine with it, ends justify the means and all that.

Dean considers his choices for a few moments, coughs and blows his nose into a wad of toilet paper, takes a sip of juice, and nods his head. "All right."

Quickly pouring out a dose before Dean changes his mind again, Sammy holds his breath until the entire cupful has disappeared down Dean's throat. He smiles down at Dean encouragingly as he takes the measuring cup back and places it on the coffee table.

The saltines and ice chips are both turned down, but the major battles have been won. Sammy's content for the moment in the knowledge that Dean's relatively comfortable and will hopefully continue to accept his help.

They both lean back to watch the TV, some lame sitcom rerun. Sammy puts his arm around Dean's slim shoulders, makes sure the blanket is tucked snugly over his legs, checks to see if the shivers have stopped. Before long, he catches Dean's head begin to bob from his peripheral vision. Poor kid didn't get much sleep last night, he remembers, plus the medicine may be making him drowsy. Sammy pulls Dean closer against his side and supports his head, soon Dean's fast asleep, mouth open so he can breathe with his stuffed up sinuses.

The medicine seems to be helping somewhat with the sneezing and runny nose, although the coughing keeps waking him up and a sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead and upper lip. Each time he wakes up, he squirms around a bit like the perfect position will make it all better before he drifts off to sleep again.

Sammy remembers the training session of the previous week, how Dean had wanted to be held on Dad's lap when he was tired and aching afterward, how lost he had looked when Dad rejected him. Hoping that he isn't about to test the boundaries of his brother's tolerance for this temporary role reversal, Sammy lifts Dean, still wrapped in the blanket, into his arms and cradles him against his chest. Not-quite-awake eyes blink languidly up at him, a hand wriggles out of the blanket to fist in his tee-shirt. _Stay._

"I'm not goin' anywhere. Go back to sleep." Sammy whispers.

Need wins out over pride. Dean let's what he wants take precedence for once, sighs his acceptance, and closes his eyes. Sammy knows a breakthrough when he sees one.

Once he's asleep again, Dean's hand relaxes its grip on Sammy's shirt and falls back to rest on his stomach.

Sammy can't get over how small Dean is compared to an adult. He's always thought of his older brother as being so large, so capable, so smart. Taking Dean's lax hand in his own strong one, he uncurls the fingers and holds their palms together. The tips of his fingers don't even reach Sammy's first knuckle.

From an adult perspective, he looks down at the child he holds in his arms. For all that Dean is only eight years old he somehow manages to be parent, teacher and guardian. This small boy has been responsible for taking care of himself and a younger brother from the time he was four. The truly remarkable thing is that he thrives on the responsibility, worries that his family doesn't need him instead of complaining that they ask too much. Having been taught to expect nothing in return, it won't take long before he begins to think of himself as unworthy to receive affection. Sammy doesn't even want to think about what shape that will leave his self-sacrificing brother in.

After a while, Dean gets restless, Sammy can feel the heat radiating through the blanket from the body draped in his arms. A new temperature reading shows 101.8, slightly higher in spite of the medicine. In order to assist his natural cooling system, Sammy blows across Dean's sweaty face and neck. The breeze stirs his light hair, Dean settles.

Around noon, he wakes up for the soup Sammy heats on the stove, manages to eat half of it and some of the saltines, takes another dose of medicine.

Afternoon television programing consists of soap operas and talk shows, so they opt for a break from the mindless drivel. While Dean is munching on some fresh ice chips to sooth his raw throat, Sammy asks, "Do you want to pick out a book for me to read to you? Don't you have some from the library?"

"No, Sammy, I read to you. You don't read to me." The fear is back in Dean's eyes.

It's almost like they're back to square one and Sammy would kick himself for saying the wrong thing except he has no clue what caused the set back.

"Well, yeah I know you usually read to me, but your throat is too sore to be talking, much less reading out loud." Maybe logic will work this time, even though it doesn't have the best track record.

Kicking at the coffee table with one foot and staring at his knees, Dean crosses his arms in front if himself. "That doesn't leave much for me to do for you."

"Dean...are you afraid I'm not going to need you any more?" Sammy asks after a moments hesitation.

Dean licks his bottom lip nervously, no answer forthcoming.

So that's it, Dean's afraid a grown up Sammy won't need him like a four year old Sammy needs him. He's afraid a grown up Sammy will leave when he finds more important things to do like Dad leaves to hunt.

"I'm always going to need you...always. You're my brother and nothing can change that." He pulls Dean into a gentle hug and kisses the top of his head. "I don't know when I'm going to change back or how much I'll remember about being grown, so I'm going to tell you now...I love you."

The tender moment he visualizes doesn't materialize. Dean's eyes glint mischievously. "I know you do, squirt."

Sammy looks incredulously at his giggling brother. "You've been waiting for just the right time to lay that one on me, haven't you? Do I look like a 'squirt' to you?" Sammy bursts out laughing and tousles his brother's hair. "You're going to be a riot when you grow up, a regular comedian."

The tension breaks and both boys sit back on the couch, flush with laughter this time instead of just fever.

To be continued.

**A/N2: Yes, I've truly indulged myself here with all the cuddling. Sorry, I couldn't help it. The opportunity presented itself, and I was too weak to turn it down.**


	3. The Opportunity

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that.**

**A/N1: The people have spoken, let the cuddling commence.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**by Disneymagic**

**Chapter 3 The Opportunity**

Dean is a very sick little boy and Sammy is starting to think that his wish didn't just change him into an adult so he could feed Dean soup and make him take his medicine, that maybe it's much more serious.

Later in the afternoon the nausea begins. Dean barely makes it to the bathroom in time, face paling, feet stumbling, bent over holding his stomach with one hand. Sammy is right there with him, one arm across his chest, holding him up, the other hand rubbing his back in a soothing up and down motion as Dean retches pitifully into the toilet. Wave after wave of gut-wrenching spasms shudder through him until he's dry heaving, nothing left to bring up but bile, strings of saliva hanging from slack lips.

"You need to stay here or do you want to go lay down in bed? Does your stomach still hurt?" Sammy asks when it looks like it's over and surveys Dean's features, watching for the grimace that precedes each stomach cramp.

"Still hurts, gotta stay here." The words are spoken through short ragged pants.

It doesn't look like Dean's going to be able to remain standing much longer though, even with Sammy's arm helping to support him. The retching has left him shaky and pale, sweat damp hair sticking to his forehead.

"Tell you what, I think you'll feel better if you're lying down, so how about we get you into bed and I'll bring you something to throw up in if you have to? That way you'll be more comfortable and won't have to jump up and run to the bathroom again." He waits for his brother's answering nod before using a wet wash cloth to wipe his face and then usher him to his bed, a hand on the small of his back to guide him.

Once Dean is settled in bed, Sammy begins to worry about what else might go wrong. Dehydration may become a factor with the vomiting and the fever. A visit to the hospital is the last resort. It has always been that way for the Winchesters, but now more so than ever. If he has to take Dean to the hospital there's a good chance social workers will be contacted because Sammy has no ID and no way to prove he's related to Dean in any way. The weight of responsibility he has taken upon himself hits him like a sledge hammer, Dean's life in his hands, so fragile and precious.

Pacing a tight circle in the confines of the tiny bedroom, Sammy pulls on his lip nervously. Hooded eyes watch him wearily from the battered mattress on squeaky bedsprings on one wall. The apartment they are renting came pre-furnished, so everything is understandably well worn. Sammy's matching twin bed fits snugly against the opposite wall of the same room.

Another coughing spell, rattling and wet sounding in the back of his throat, almost causes Dean to begin gagging again. When it's over he sinks further into the pillow, huddling under the blankets drawn up to his chin, shivering with the chills of fever.

Pulled from his anxious pacing, Sammy races back to the living room for the extra blanket and tucks it firmly around Dean's trembling body, speaking words meant to reassure himself as well as his brother, "Take it easy, Dean. You're going to be all right."

The next temperature reading shows 102.1, still inching steadily higher. A person's temperature can reach 103, even 104, with no permanent damage, he knows, but Sammy's apprehension increases. He sits beside Dean's bed feeding him ice chips between coughing bouts and holding cool compresses to his forehead. The ice chips are the only thing Dean can keep down, a painstaking lesson learned after both the juice and water make quick reappearances. Thankfully, the ice helps cool while also hydrating. Talking hurts Dean's throat, so he remains silent most of the evening, lethargically flipping through the pages of a crumpled comic book. After a while Dean's shivering subsides and his eyelids get heavier and heavier, until they finally drift closed and stay closed. Air soughs between parted lips, shallow in order to avoid more coughing. A fierce protectiveness makes Sammy's breath hitch and his chest tighten as he gazes at the sleeping child. He sifts a hand through Dean's silky honey-hued hair before quietly leaving the bedroom in the hopes that his brother will be able to get some much needed rest.

No sooner has he returned from the kitchen after wolfing down a ham sandwich and propped his feet up on the coffee table in the living room than he senses Dean's presence at his elbow.

"I thought you were sleeping. What's the matter, Dean?" Sammy questions quietly.

Downcast eyes dully reflect back the fading day's light filtering through the west facing window of the apartment and Dean sways loosely backward and forward, more asleep than awake.

"Can't sleep if I don't know where you are." Dean mumbles, picking at a frayed thread on the couch's upholstery.

Sammy huffs a fond chuckle. Huh, Dean's either still trying to look out for him or he just isn't used to sleeping in a room without a younger sibling nearby. "OK, you win. I'll stay with you, but you have to stop fighting it and go to sleep."

Scooping the boy up into his arms, Sammy heads back to the bedroom. Dean's arms snake around his neck and a tired head finds his shoulder.

"How's your stomach? Do you think you can keep some medicine down? I want to give you a little more before you go to sleep to help lower your fever." Sammy says, sitting his brother gently on the edge of the bed.

"I'll try, Sammy." Skepticism tinges Dean's answer and he seems to impossibly pale even further with just the thought.

"We'll go slow. You're being really brave, Dean." Sammy's own stomach somersaults unpleasantly. He hates asking Dean to risk further discomfort, but if his body doesn't reject it, the medicine should help him sleep by lessening the painful burn in his throat and the constant coughing, as well as lowering his fever.

The medicine still sits on the coffee table in the living room where they last used it, so he makes another trip out to retrieve the sticky bottle, measures a portion, and hands it to his frowning brother, mental fingers crossed.

"Just take your time, no rush." Sammy, not so discretely, readies a plastic bag when Dean brings the plastic cup with the viscous liquid up to his mouth.

Several dainty sips taken between long intervals and the medicine appears to cause no fresh stomach cramps. Both boys let out a sigh of relief, Dean's shoulders curling inwards into a relaxed slouch on the exhale.

With Sammy sitting vigil, Dean is soon asleep again. Shadows lengthen around him with the coming of night and the only sounds are the soft snuffles of Dean breathing and occasional footsteps coming from the apartment above theirs.

It's been a long day, long and strange. He's been so tied up with convincing Dean to let him help, worrying over the huge responsibility of taking care of his ailing brother, and doing everything he can to make Dean comfortable so he can get well, that there hasn't been any time to reflect of what it all might mean. There aren't any books to tell him what to do in this situation. As far as he knows, this is the first and only instance of a four year old boy becoming a twenty four year old man in the blink of an eye. He has no way of knowing how long it's going to last, what will happen when he changes back, or even if he will change back. Just guesses.

The only thing clear to him is his purpose. Every cell in his body quivers with the desire to help Dean. It's as if there are now two pieces of the Sammy puzzle, a four year old with bright-eyed love and puppy-like devotion to his brother and a twenty four year old with a strong protective streak and moral sense of obligation. The two pieces combined create the ultimate 'big' brother whose sole reason for being is to care about Dean. It make perfect sense. He is the embodiment of his wish.

The wish is a priceless gift, not to Dean, although hopefully Dean will feel the value of it, but to himself. The opportunity to know and appreciate his brother through the eyes of a grown up while his brother is still a child, to shape his future in a way that otherwise would be impossible, to unlock the doors to Dean's self-esteem so he can see the goodness within. All that and more is now at his fingertips, all he has to do is maximize his opportunity.

Yawning, Sammy climbs under the covers of his own bed. His bare feet hang over the edge of the mattress and yet it's comfortable, familiar, warm. Darkness lulls him until he's floating on the current of a limbo world, skimming along the surface between dreams and reality. Not asleep, not awake, existing in a space apart.

"Sammy..." Dean's voice, crackling like autumn leaves rubbed together, manages to tug him back from the peaceful cocoon-wrapped land.

"Dean? Do you need something?" Sammy pushes up onto his elbow, rubs his bleary eyes.

"Please." The one word plea is charged and full of unspoken meaning.

Sammy doesn't need Dean to say any more. He can read Dean like an open book, sees everything that Dean would never put voice to, never say out loud for fear of rejection. The expression on his face is desperate need and want and hope and fear all rolled into one bundle of tough-as-nails eight year old boy. Tough because Dean faces the bitter reality of his life without complaint. Tough because he shoulders the responsibility of his entire world and asks for more. Tough because he feels so much, yet denies himself release from those feelings. It's probably only because illness has lowered his defenses that Sammy is able to see so clearly into his brother's heart right now. But maybe not, maybe Dean just chooses carefully who he shows his most guarded secrets to.

"C'mere, Dean." Sammy invites by lifting up the blankets and beckoning his brother over with one hand.

Dean scoots into the bed and leans into him, listless and heavy, like the walk from one side of the room to the other drained every ounce of energy from his body. There isn't any room on the small bed to move over and accommodate another person, but neither of them seems to care much. The warm weight pressed against him relaxes him and Sammy understands why parents derive as much comfort as their children from such close contact. Instinctive urges to shelter his brother from all harm are satisfied by the connection.

To get an idea of how Dean's fever is progressing, Sammy palms his forehead and then his cheek. If his estimate is anything to go by, Dean feels relatively cooler. Children's temperatures often fluctuate up and down during illness and Sammy is relieved that his brother is catching a break.

Curling up under the blanket, nestled close and using Sammy's arm as a pillow, Dean quickly submits to the steady tug of sleep. Whatever is in that cold medicine does a real number on him. Sammy recognizes their current positions as a reverse image of a common sight. When Sammy feels scared or gets sick, he is usually the one curled up next to Dean. He smiles into the shadowy room and dozes off to the sweet picture conjured in his mind.

Sometime later that night, Sammy wakes again to the sound of his brother's voice, this time accompanied by squirming.

"No...don't." Dean gasps, his head jerking frantically from side to side.

Peering down at his brother's face in concern, Sammy asks, "Don't what, Dean?"

It looks like Dean is having a bad dream, eyes rolling under closed lids, legs shifting under the blanket. "I didn't mean to." He whimpers.

"Shhhhh, it's OK. You're all right." Sammy tries to sooth, but his words don't reach Dean through his dream.

With a shudder, Dean cries out, "I'm sorry...my fault."

Enough is enough. Sammy sits up, pulling Dean, still squirming, with him until Dean lies draped across his lap. "Come on, Dean. Wake up. It's just a dream."

But the dream won't release it's grip. "No...'s my fault." Dean moans and tries to roll back onto the bed.

"Nothing's your fault, Dean. Time to wake up now." Sammy holds his brother tight until he goes still and pliant.

Dean's normally a light sleeper, waking up at the slightest noise, so his lack of alertness during what amounts to manhandling, has Sammy skirting the edges of panic. His heart hammers a staccato beat as he rubs Dean's cheek, trying to get a response. "Hey Dean, c'mon. Please, wake up for me."

When Dean's eyes open they're muddy and opaque, darting around the room as if he's looking for something or someone before locking hard on Sammy.

"Dean? Are you with me?" Sammy sits back slightly, not surrendering his hold, but giving his brother a bit of space to shake off the lingering nightmare. "Can you tell me what you were dreaming about?"

With no warning, Dean launches himself at Sammy, clinging to his t-shirt and sobbing into his shoulder. The broken sobs sound like nothing so much as the fracturing of an innocent soul.

"Hush now, it's OK. I got ya." Sammy croons, masking his confusion and surprise, focusing solely on the trembling bundle in his arms.

Something is bothering Dean, something manifesting through his dreams, but now is not the time to try to unearth the mystery. Not while Dean is so emotionally vulnerable. Sammy feels as though it's important to get to the bottom of this and eventually he'll give his curiosity free reign, just not right now. Instead he murmurs words of comfort to his brother while rubbing his back until the jagged crying quiets.

In the morning, Dean is sullen and silent. The night spent in fever and nightmares has done little to restore his health or energy levels.

Although Sammy tries several times to bring up the bad dream, Dean refuses to talk about it, claiming he doesn't remember. Sammy knows he does.

At around eight o'clock the phone rings once and then goes silent. Two minutes later it begins ringing again, Dad's signal that it's all right to answer. By mutual agreement, Dean is the one to pick up. They are fairly certain their Dad would not react well to a strange man answering the phone, claiming to be Sammy. Dean visibly steels himself before swiftly moving the receiver up to his mouth.

"Hi, Dad." Dean's voice comes out raspy and congested.

There's a pause while Dean listens to whatever Dad's saying. Sammy can hear the deep rumbling of their Dad's baritone, but he can't make out the words.

"It's just a cold. Everything's fine. Sammy's fine." A quick glance over at Sammy seems to verify for Dean that he's telling Dad the truth and Sammy is, in fact, fine.

Not 'I'm fine' Sammy notes and he wonders if that's because Dean isn't fine or he just doesn't think Dad cares about whether he's fine or not.

In a whispered stage voice Sammy says, "Tell him you're sick and you need him to come home."

Dean seems to be better now, but if he gets worse it would be nice for Dad to be here to take him to the hospital. Dean just looks at him like he's grown antennae and a blue beard.

Suddenly Dad's voice is powerful, like he's right there in the room with them and Dean jerks the hand piece away from his ear with a flinch. Dad's talking so loudly that Sammy can hear every word from three feet away.

"I'm going to be home in a couple of days, Dean and I'd better not find out that you're using that cold as an excuse to slack off. Do you hear me? You need to be training every day. I'm going to drill you on those hand-to-hand maneuvers I taught you before I left and I expect you to be picture perfect. Shake off that cold and do your job."

As he listens, Dean sets his jaw and squares his shoulders. "Yes, sir."

To be continued.

**A/N2: I know this chapter contained a topic (sick!Dean) which has been covered endless times, but I hope I was able to put enough of my own spin on it to make it interesting. I have lots of plans for this story, so please stick with me. **

**Also, please review. You will make me a very happy camper and an inspired writer.**


	4. The End of the Beginning

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that.**

**A/N1: I love each and every review so much and I always respond to every one that I can. Because I can't personally respond to the anonymous reviews I will thank them here. Thanks to Kat, anon, Lisa, and Dani, your kind words inspire me to write faster.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**by Disneymagic**

**Chapter 4 The End of the Beginning**

Dean stands, shell shocked, with the phone dangling nearly forgotten in a loose grip long after their Dad says good-bye. Staring straight ahead, he fumbles with the receiver until it finds the cradle almost on its own.

"Dean, don't listen to him, he doesn't know how sick you are." Sammy tries, knowing before he even begins that it's a lost cause.

"No, Sammy, he's right." Dean croaks, voice catching. "I...I don't know what I was thinking. How could I have been so lazy? I knew I had training to do and...and I just laid around all day yesterday. How can I expect anyone to...trust me if I can't do one easy thing right."

Sammy knows that Dean is thinking out loud, not really talking to him at all. The internal dialogue he normally uses to berate himself with being spoken out loud inadvertently.

"Being sick and needing help are things that happen to everyone, Dean. It's not something to be ashamed of or to feel guilty about." Sammy places one hand on Dean's back when he sees his brother fighting to control tears that threaten to spill from shimmering emerald eyes.

Ducking out from under Sammy's hand, Dean viciously pushes the heels of both hands into his eyes to stop the tears from falling. "Sorry you had to take care of me. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused."

Watching every bit of progress he'd made with his brother stripped away is more than Sammy can bear and he wants to grab onto Dean, hold him tight, force him to realize how valuable, how treasured, how important he is, but he knows Dean won't put up with that, not now. Not with the ghost of Dad's words still ringing in his ears.

He settles for squatting in front of Dean so they're eye to eye. "I wanted to take care of you...I still want to."

Dean returns the eye contact briefly, then reverts to staring at his feet as if overpowered by shame at his own weakness. "Yeah, well, you don't have to anymore. I'm better, now." He stifles a cough into the crook of his elbow.

"You're a little better, yes, but you still need to get your strength back." Sammy pushes himself up to his feet, legs aching from the awkward position.

"A little better is gonna have to be good enough." Dean quirks a half smile, the jaunty smile where his lips curl up on one side of his face, but not the other. The smile that says 'nobody here but a cocky kid without a care in the world, no emotional scars to gawk at, everybody can just move along'. The smile that fools the teachers, child protective services, and every other adult Dean comes in contact with, even Dad.

The smile currently tearing a hole in Sammy's lungs, causing the air to stagnate and refuse to be moved in or out of his body.

The first and foremost line of defense in Dean's arsenal has always been deflection. When under attack, misdirect the enemy with clever repartee, never let them see your distress, never let on that you're hurting. Sammy wonders when he became the enemy.

"It's not good enough. You need to take it easy for at least another day or two. You're not ready to jump to attention and follow Dad's every command yet." His frustration makes his voice sharper than he intended and Sammy knows he's made a mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Dean's face instantly transforms from cocky to furious, a wall slams into place effectively shutting Sammy out. "I'm not weak, Sammy, and even if you are a grown up right now, you're not in charge of me."

There's nothing he can do but watch as his brother brushes past him and marches stiffly into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He hears an explosion of coughing after the door closes, and knows Dean had been waiting to be alone before giving in to his dry, scratchy, aching throat. _Never let on that you're hurting._

At least Dean is in the bedroom where he can get some rest, even though he obviously doesn't want Sammy anywhere near him. With a deep sigh, Sammy shuffles into the kitchen, intent on making something for Dean's breakfast, even if his help is unwanted. He wonders how in the world things got so messed up so quickly. Just last night, his brother had sought him out, leaned on him, cried on him for goodness sake. Let himself be cared for. Let someone care about him. Let Sammy take care of him. And now he's treating Sammy like one of 'them' instead of one of 'us', one of the people to be deceived instead of relied on, one of the grown ups he routinely dismisses as of no use to him instead of his doted upon brother.

The kitchen, like all the other rooms in their apartment, is tiny with shabby outdated appliances in the olive green color popular back in the 1940's. Before Sammy can even get the pan hot enough to cook the scrambled eggs, Dean emerges from the bedroom wearing a pair of sweat pants and a loose shirt, training clothes. His movements are jerky, uncoordinated, and Sammy can tell he's trying hard to hold himself together, doesn't want Sammy to see him falter. It's all an act put on for his benefit. Dean's feverish eyes look vaguely unfocused, his breath already coming in short bursts even though all he's done so far is to get dressed from what he can tell. Pained resolution is painted on his face like another one of the masks he wears for strangers, only this isn't part of the performance, it's for real and not actually meant to be seen. Sammy sees it.

"What are you doing, Dean?" Sammy asks the question, even though the answer is obvious, while moving to block the front door.

"I'm going outside to practice. I have to show Dad I'm strong enough to pull my weight. I have to be ready if he needs me." Determined, Dean stalkes toward him, pushes past him, almost makes it to the door before Sammy can react.

Sammy's long arm darts out and he catches Dean's shoulder just as he reaches for the door knob. "Your fever has gone down from where it was last night, but it's not back to normal yet, you haven't had anything to eat that's stayed down since day before yesterday, you're probably partially dehydrated because you weren't able to drink much yesterday, you haven't had a good night's sleep for the past two nights, you're squinting your eyes like you have a headache, and you're still coughing." He ticks each point off on slender fingers, voice rising in volume as he continues. "You need to rest, give yourself a little time and when you feel up to it, I'll help you train."

Without so much as a backward glance, Dean shakes off Sammy's hand and continues outside. Sammy follows him, fuming. A warm breeze, the kind typical of late spring, ruffles the boys' hair on its way past. They round the apartment building and go through the gate to the small strip of grass that serves as the apartment building's back yard. The space is surrounded by a privacy fence and contains a couple of rusty lawn chairs. Weeds sprout haphazardly along the fence line, but the grass is mowed to a respectable height.

Despite his good intentions, Dean's obstinacy, his misplaced loyalty to their Dad, infuriates Sammy. Where four year old Sammy would cringe in sympathy, twenty four year old Sammy slams his hand into the fence behind him in white hot anger. Dad is the reason Dean pushes himself too hard, and for what? What is it that Dean hopes to find in their distant father with his one-track mind? Sammy has never had to depend on their Dad for much, so the concept is alien to him...until he tries to imagine life without Dean's ever-present support. And then he gets it.

Then again, as a four year old he already understood. It's why he made this wish in the first place, his desire to fulfill the same role for his brother that Dean fulfills for him. Is there something about being a grown up that made him forget his childish ideals? That makes him quick to anger? Being angry at their Dad is one thing, but he can't let that anger transfer to Dean. He swallows any negative emotions about their Dad, doesn't want to add to the heavy burden Dean already carries.

Dean is oblivious to Sammy's epiphany. After limbering up with several stretching exercises, he relaxes into a fighting stance. Following Dad's prescribed regimen, he begins the practice with forward jabs, boxer style, at an invisible target. When Dad's here, he serves as Dean's sparring partner, but when they're alone, Dean has to make due. Although Sammy is standing right there, Dean ignores him as a potential sparring partner and Sammy doesn't offer. In no way does he want to give Dean the impression that he condones this activity. Not if the sole purpose is to appease Dad, not at the expense of Dean's health.

While watching his brother pause to catch his breath during what should have been the light, warm-up portion of the work out routine, he pictures himself physically putting a stop to Dean's self-inflicted torture. He could do it. After all, he's a lot bigger than Dean now.

He imagines himself picking Dean up and forcefully taking him back inside. Dean would struggle for a while, but would quickly realize that there was no point. He would submit to being carried inside without screaming to avoid a scene, nosy neighbors, police, child protective services.

Then he would resent Sammy for the rest of his life. Nope, Dean is going to have to do this his way and Sammy is going to have to let him.

Next comes the kick-boxing work out. A knot in the wood of the privacy fence, right at hip level for Dean, serves as his target. Lacking his normal fluid grace, rapid-fire kicks now sluggish, precise leg placements now sloppy, Dean proceeds to aim sideways kicks at the fence with first his left and then his right booted foot.

It's during his second set of twenty reps that he loses his balance and has to hop sideways to avoid falling to the ground. He turns to face his brother and Sammy can see Dean's eyes spinning like he's just been running in tight circles, dizzy with the effort. His hands go out to the sides to catch himself, just missing the fence and groping at thin air.

"Put your head between your legs if you're feeling lightheaded." Sammy calls, already running towards his now dangerously listing brother, but it's too late for that.

Dean's eyes roll back in his head and his knees unhinge. With a quiet thwump, Dean collapses in a heap on the thankfully soft grass.

"No, Dean, don't do that." The distraught words sound ridiculous even to his own ears. Sammy is beyond caring. His stomach lurches into his throat at the sight of the small boy lying unmoving and helpless on the ground. "No no no no no." Kneeling beside his brother, Sammy whispers soundlessly, brushes the hair from Dean's face, presses numb fingers to Dean's neck, feeling for a pulse. Of course, it's there, galloping along fast and strong and Sammy let's out the remainder of his pent up breath. Dean's fine, he just passed out from over exertion, dehydration, limits of endurance surpassed, take your pick. He needs some TLC and something tells him that Dean will submit to his ministrations from now on.

Sliding one arm under Dean's legs and the other under his shoulders, Sammy lifts his brother, rag doll limp, and jogs through the gate, around the building and up to the front door of their apartment. He juggles Dean higher against his chest and eases the door open, sliding into the welcoming cool of the air conditioning.

Dean moans and shifts closer to the warmth of Sammy's torso, weak as a kitten, eyelids fluttering slowly open.

"Shhhh, you're OK, you decided to take a nap in the grass, that's all." Sammy sooths, going for a lightly teasing tone, hoping to disguise his distress.

Dean looks up at him with wide, bewildered eyes, all former obstinate determination washed away by the waves of dizziness. He looks so lost and _young_, it's absolutely heart-wrenching.

"Sammy?" Dean sighs the one word question, his brother's presence all he requires.

"Yup, I'm here. We're back in the apartment. I'm going to get you something to drink, maybe something to eat. You'll feel better in a minute."

After gently lowering Dean onto his bed, tucking the blankets around his legs and waist, Sammy turns toward the kitchen to get a glass of water when he's brought up short by Dean's plaintive voice, made all the more compelling by his obvious disorientation.

"It's like my dream, just like my dream."

"What's like your dream?" Sammy sinks into the mattress near Dean's hip, picks up his brother's hand where it twitches restlessly on top of his thigh, holding the cool digits between his own to warm them.

"I'm not ready. Something bad's gonna come after you and I'm not gonna be ready. I won't be able to stop it and it'll be all my fault." Dean's sorrow filled eyes hold him captive and he can't look away.

"Oh God, Dean. Is that what this drive to train is about...your dream?" Sammy feels lower than dirt. Here he's been blaming Dad for making Dean feel inadequate and all along Dean has been pushing himself, training harder, so that he'll be ready to keep his little brother safe from the slimy and evil things they both know haunt the night.

"Dad's counting on me to watch over you, Sammy. I'm letting him down. He's gonna be disappointed in me." Voice hitching, Dean continues to stare at him and Sammy wishes Dean didn't care so much about what their Dad thinks.

"There's no reason for Dad to be disappointed in you, nothing has come after me, nothing has happened to either one of us. Why don't you tell me about your dream?"

"It's dark...I can't see you, but I know you're there with me. We're in a basement...I think. I can hear something coming...it's growling, snarling. Then it has you and you're screaming. Sammy, you're screaming for me to help you, and I try...I try to help you, but I can't find you. When it takes you away I know I'm not strong enough or fast enough or good enough and I have to get better so I can save you." Dean talks about the nightmare as though he's reliving it, by the time he gets to the end he's breathing heavily.

"Ok, it's just a bad dream, not real. Calm down, Dean, it's all right." Sammy rubs Dean's chest, encouraging him to take deep breaths. He uses the time to gather his thoughts, this is important and he needs to do it right, make Dean understand. "You're taking on an awfully big mission there, don't you think? Don't take this the wrong way, 'cause I'm grateful, Dean, really I am, and I admire you. But, you don't have to feel like it's all on you, all the time. You've had to carry more than your fair share up until now and you've done a great job. I'm hoping to take some of it from you, if you'll let me."

Pausing, he looks intently at the boy in the bed. Dean shakes his head, not in disagreement, more like he's trying to clear his vision.

"Will you help me train? You said you'd help when I was better."

Sammy snorts in fond disbelief. "You aren't paying any attention to me at all, are you? Yes, I'll help you train when you're feeling better." Apparently his brother isn't ready to share the load.

He's just about to try to make his point again when Dean begins scrunching his eyes closed and opening them wide. He repeats the process a second and a third time. It takes Sammy a couple of seconds, watching his brother closely, to figure out what he's doing.

"You're still feeling lightheaded? Is your vision tunneling? Hold on, Dean. You need some water." Sammy rushes to the kitchen for the previously forgotten glass of water, disappointed in himself for not treating Dean's dehydration before trying to decipher his dreams. Talk about misplaced priorities. Dean's strange response had nothing to do with stubborn refusal and everything to do with his attempt to stay conscious.

To be continued.

**A/N2: This chapter tore me up a little bit to write. I'm nervous and I'd really like to know what you all think. Review please?**


	5. Daddy John

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that. This chapter contains mentions of attacks on children, nothing graphic.**

**A/N: Sweet reviews! I can't tell you how much I love them. I would kiss and hug them if I could. XOXO to all of you reading, reviewing, alerting and favoriting this story.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**by Disneymagic**

**Chapter 5 Daddy John**

From his prone position on the bed, Dean raises both arms and makes 'gimee' motions with his hands as soon as Sammy comes back with the glass of water. His hands shake noticeably in front of him and he stares at them as if he doesn't understand why they're no longer under his control. With a small down turning of lips he presses his palms into the mattress at his sides, willing them to be still.

"It's OK, Dean, I got it." Sammy uses one strong arm to maneuver Dean into a sitting position, holds the glass of water to his mouth, and smiles as his brother relaxes into the support, drinking eagerly. "Just a little to start off with. We don't want you to get sick again."

Dean looks bone tired, weary even, but he manages to finish the whole glass of water in small increments to Sammy's satisfaction. Giving a sigh that almost sounds like contentment, he burrows further under the covers and closes his eyes. Just when Sammy is sure the boy must have fallen asleep, his eyes snap open and lock on Sammy once again as though he's afraid to let himself drift off.

"What is it, Dean?"

"Nothing." Dean gives a small shake of his head, dismissing the importance of his concern.

"I can see something's bothering you. You can tell me, I might be able to help, you know." Tilting his head and arching his eyebrows in an expression of intense interest, Sammy waits patiently for a reply.

"Don't wanna dream. Might be the same one."

The mumbled answer reminds Sammy that Dean's dream is a huge clue into his state of mind. The dream in which Sammy is taken away and Dean is unable to follow. Not only is he prevented from saving Sammy by his own perceived inadequacies, but he also isn't strong enough or good enough to follow after him. Those were the exact words he had used.

To follow him where? Away from this life of aborted innocence? It's true that Sammy has a much better chance of making it as a fully functioning adult because he has an older brother to shelter him from much of the pain and uncertainly their childhood presents to them on a daily basis.

Sam feels a cosmic pull to get Dean through his childhood in one piece, whole in mind as well as body. It feels as though they have a destiny so big it's going to require both of them to stand tall together in the end game and they have to be strong when they get there. Dean has been doing his part to get Sammy there, safe and sound on the other side of _this_, whatever _this_ is...growing up without parents, without examples of 'healthy', 'well-adjusted', 'normal'. And now it's his turn to bring his brother out of this hellish existence, an existence where he slaves for everyone's cause but his own, and eventually into the light of adulthood with the knowledge that someone cares about him, loves him. Because children who don't have that...well, those kids just don't make it and there's just no way he's going to let that happen to Dean. Too much time has passed already, four years, and Dean has grown uncomfortable with displays of affection having lived without for so long. He's lost, trapped, emotionally crippled by circumstances beyond his control.

So, Sammy scoots into the too-short bed next to Dean and hugs the child tightly to him. His brother stiffens and tries to pull away, but Sammy just holds on even tighter until Dean relents and rests his head on Sammy's shoulder. Then Sammy starts making promises he fully intends to keep.

"When you feel better, we're going to go outside and I'm going to teach you everything I know about hand-to-hand and let me tell you, I know a lot. I know stuff Dad hasn't even begun to teach you yet. When he gets home he's gonna be so impressed, Dean. You'll be able to show him how hard you've been working and he'll be amazed."

Sammy keeps right on talking, the words soothing his brother's wounded spirit with tales of valor and skill, better than any fairy tale or lullaby. The next time Sammy looks down, Dean is out like a light.

Over the next few days the bond forged between the two brothers grows. It's always been strong, if a bit one-sided with Sammy being so young, but now it's like a thick steel cable, unbreakable, impenetrable, tying them inexorably to one another.

The illness slowly loosens its hold on Dean and each day they are able to spend longer and longer outside working on perfecting the attacks, counter-attacks, and blocks that Sammy teaches Dean as well as the moves that Dad taught him.

How Dad expected Dean to work on any hand-to-hand skills with only his four year old brother around to practice with is beyond Sammy. Most of them require a partner, preferably of the same size, or a passive larger opponent, one who can act as a moving target and won't get hurt by the thrown punches and kicks. With Sammy as a willing and capable sparring partner, coach, and cheer-leader, Dean progresses in giant leaps and bounds. He's a natural and only needs a little bit of encouragement, patience, and kindness to shine like a highly polished gem.

In between training sessions, Sammy makes sure that Dean gets plenty of rest, drinks lots of water, eats healthy meals and enjoys some recreation that's not related to learning how to be a hunter in any way. Amazingly, Dean lets him, actually thrives on it.

They find some puzzles in a crawl space of the apartment, left there by some previous tenant. Each puzzle depicts a landscape. One is of a farmhouse with a pasture full of horses, another is a picture of a lake and several rowboats, and one has a towering snow-capped mountain on it. Sammy has never seen Dean sit still long enough to put a puzzle together before and really doesn't think he'll be at all interested, so he's surprised when Dean becomes engrossed with fitting the tiny pieces into their proper places. The two brothers spend many happy hours laughing and talking over the jigsaws.

Four days after Dad's call, they're outside working on disarming an opponent. Sammy's holding a stick and Dean is repeatedly either knocking it out of his hand with a series of karate-like moves or wrestling it from him while ensuring that the weapon, be it a gun or a knife, can't be used on him. When Dean wants to learn something, he's unstoppable. The thing that makes him such a good student is the way he applies himself, always gives 100 percent, concentration fully on what he's doing. Of course, the key is that it has to be something he's interested in.

They had been practicing for about half an hour and Sammy was ready for something new, but Dean still wasn't completely satisfied with his level of competence.

"A couple more goes, Sammy, please?" Dean begs, eyes upturned and pleading.

Sammy gives a good-natured snort, thinking that his brother might have him beat when it comes to the puppy dog eyes.

"Fine, a couple more, but then it's time for a break." He gives in tolerantly right before a strange sensation overwhelms him.

It feels as though the ground and the sky are switching places, making him dizzy and exhilarated at the same time. The trees soar up and away while the grass comes swooping towards his face. He staggers forward, arms outstretched, hands grasping.

Dean is there in an instant , clasping his upper arms, and it becomes clear to Sammy what's happening when he hears his brother's quiet assurances.

"My turn now, Sammy. It's my turn. I gotcha, squirt."

He's four year old again.

Everything he automatically knew as a twenty-four years old begins to dissolve, fragment, and float away. It leaves him bewildered and off-center because he can still remember it, being twenty-four and everything that happened during the last couple of days, but it's blurry, like ether, easily forgotten with time. His four year old mind simply cannot grasp some of the more complicated concepts, so they spiral out of him, leaving him dizzy with their passage.

He tightens his fists in Dean's shirt. Dean's here and that means there's nothing to be afraid of, his brother will take care of him.

Gazing up at the older boy's concerned face, Sammy seeks approval. "It was my wish, right Dean? I did good, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did real good." Dean sounds wistful and joyful, simultaneously.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

On those rare occasions when John Winchester becomes introspective, he doesn't think of himself as a hard-hearted man. He doesn't think of himself as intentionally cruel. Quite the opposite, in fact. When John thinks about himself, as everyone does from time to time, he sees a kind man who cares about others and loves his sons. He's dedicating his life to saving other people, isn't he? He's sacrificing everything he holds dear each and every day to keep others safe, isn't he?

He used to be affectionate, but those days are gone, that part of him dried up and blew away in the fire that took his wife. So now he shows his love in other, more abstract, ways. As a military man, he falls back on his military training, allows the discipline and order of it to rule his life, prepares his boys for lurking evil in the best way he knows how, and ignores any hint that he may not be providing them with the emotional stability they crave. He just can't do it, its not in him anymore.

He frequently looses himself in the thrill of the hunt. Killing every evil creature he can find and saving people takes the place of everything else he used to have. Each time he ends a vile creature he gains a measure of peace, but the peace is fleeting, leaving him itching and aching for the next one. Its like an addiction.

He doesn't want his sons to go though what he went through, so he starts teaching them about monsters and how to fight them. That way, they won't be surprised, like he was, blindsided really, when the hideous creatures come crawling into _their_ houses to steal _their_ loved ones away. Its the best he can do to protect them.

The hunt he just finished up took quite a long time and he knows it's not good to leave his young sons alone so many days in a row, regardless he's already thinking about his next case, mind already immersed in what he knows so far and what he's going to need. It's a paying gig, which is an unusual bonus.

The Impala almost drives itself, a home-seeking missile cutting a path down the asphalt lanes toward the apartment where two boys await his return. It'll be good to see them again after...how many days has it been anyway? Too long, longer than he's ever left them before. Dean had definitely sounded sick on the phone, just a cold though he'd said. John hopes that's true. He's going to need Dean at the top of his game for this next hunt. Lives are at stake.

The intel he has for the upcoming hunt amounts to this; children of families living in a condominium are being attacked in their bedrooms after the parents have gone to sleep. So far, five kids have been beaten and throttled, the last one died of his injuries. All five screamed bloody murder while their parents, awakened by the screaming and banging, frantically tried to get to their children. In all five cases the bedroom doors were wedged shut, impossible to open no matter what measures the parents took to get in. Impossible that is, until the doors popped open of their own accord to reveal the children, terrified, bruised, and alone in their rooms.

Word had spread quickly through the building and all the remaining families with children had moved out, justifiably frightened of the invisible assailant. The condominium association chairman had gotten John's contact information, he's still not quite sure how, and hired him to investigate and put an end to the attacks.

He's already come up with a list of possible supernatural entities, those that tend to prey upon children. Boogeymen, the ones that hide under beds or in closets, are an obvious suspect. Then there are shtriga, aswang, and rawheads, all of whom have a penchant for young children. None of them seem to exactly fit this case though. John still has some research to do.

Since all of the children have been removed from the building, and the entity only targets children, the adult residents should be safe enough until he can get there. He needs to get home to his kids, evaluate Dean's readiness, and do a little more research before he packs them all up to move into the condo. They're to be given free accommodations in the condo for as long as necessary as part of his compensation.

It doesn't occur to him to think about what he's telling his children when he's willing to put their lives on the line to save others, because he doesn't think of it in those terms at all. The word 'bait' never crosses his mind. He's been preparing them for this, Dean at least, and he's going to be with them the entire time, they'll never be left unprotected.

It's mid-afternoon when he pulls up to their apartment building and he's exhausted from the seemingly endless hours of driving it took to get here. He only slept once, pulling over into a rest stop and catching a couple hours in the car when he'd been unable to go any further. The sound of his boys' laughter reaches him through the open drivers' side window. It's coming from the back of the apartment complex. That's a sound he doesn't hear nearly enough. He takes a moment to close his eyes, lean his head on the back of the seat, and enjoy the pure ring of it.

The rusty hinges squeak when he pushes the gate open, announcing his arrival. Sammy has Dean 'pinned' in the grass, straddling his chest, and Dean has one hand free, tickling his younger sibling's belly while he plays at being unable to get up. Both boys still at the sound of the gate and two heads whip around to see who is breaching their sanctuary.

"Hey boys." John calls and smiles wide in genuine happiness at seeing his kids together and doing fine. He ignores the voice inside his head that says 'doing fine without me'.

"Hey Dad!"

"You're home!"

Two excited voices call back.

Sammy scrambles off his big brother and waits for Dean to get up, slipping his hand possessively into Dean's before they both walk over to greet him. There are no shouts of 'daddy!' and no running to meet him, to be swept up into his arms, but that's his own fault. He doesn't encourage it. He misses it sometimes though, like now.

They come to a stop in front of him and he drops a hand to each boy's slight shoulder, looking them up and down, checking for signs that anything is amiss. Something's different, he can't quite put his finger on what though. The difference is subtle, a more carefree tilt to Dean's head, a more self-assured swagger to Sammy's gait, the way they move as a team, two parts of a single unit.

"Dean, how about a status report, tell me what's been happening around here while I've been gone." John's voice is crisp and authoritative. The faster he can assess the situation here, the faster they can be moving on. He feels the tickle of anticipation and as much as he knows he should slow down, spend some time with his kids, just talk to them like a parent instead of a Drill Sargent, the tickle quickly becomes the itch, driving him onward to the next hunt, the next monster, the next righteous kill. _Addiction._

Before Dean can compose his answer, Sammy pipes up, "Dean was really, really sick, Dad. But it's OK though 'cause my wish camed true and I was a growed up and I took care of him and he got all better."

To be continued.

**A/N: We got baby Sammy back in this chapter and the action's really going to pick up in the next chapter. Hold on to your socks! **

**It's terrible to be this needy, but I live for the reviews so... if you can spare the time to let me know how I'm doing it would mean the world to me.**


	6. Spirits Fight Nasty

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that. This chapter contains descriptions of violence to children. Be warned.**

**A/N: Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews! I was blown away to say the very least and wrote this chapter in record time, so you see, the reviews really do inspire me to write faster. We get Dean's POV for this chapter.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**by Disneymagic**

**Chapter 6 Spirits Fight Nasty**

Dean watches as his father's eyes narrow appraisingly to sweep first Sammy and then him. After a beat, the dangerous glint recedes, an amused expression replacing the hardened one, as if Dad had changed his mind about something or come to a different conclusion.

"You mean, you looked after your brother when he wasn't feeling well, just like a grown up. That's good Sammy. That's what family does, they take care of each other." Dad fingers the collar of Sammy's shirt absently before moving his hand to the top of his head, a fond smile curling his lips.

Dean kind of hopes that the subject drops on that note. It's not that he wants to lie to his Dad, in fact he's pretty sure he could never get away with that, but the truth is going to be hard in so many ways. Hard to fully explain, hard to make Dad believe, impossible to prove, and not worth the trouble. Sammy turning into an adult for six days then turning back into his usual four year old self just moments before Dad arrives home...that was just a fluke, never going to happen again, right? No point in discussing something that's over and done with.

Sammy's determined not to be taken lightly though. "No, not 'like a growed up', a real _live_ growed up." His mop of dark hair shifts under Dad's hand as he shakes his head in emphasis.

"What's this about, Dean?" All amusement evaporates and Dad's puzzled gaze seems to drill into him.

Dean's mouth goes dry while he tries to think of some way to explain what happened, rejecting each opening as it comes to him, unable to think of a single plausible statement. Worse than Dad not believing his story is the realization that Dad might get angry with him for allowing Sammy to talk to some wacky fortune teller in the first place.

Impatience draws stark lines across his father's face, so Dean plunges reluctantly into the tale, speaking quickly to get it over with as soon as possible and dropping Sammy's hand when he feels the slippery sweat of nerves coat his palm. When he finishes his narration, he glances up at the stern man in front of him. Dad's lips are pressed together in a thin line, his arms are crossed over his chest. Sammy mirrors his body language all the away down to the determined jut of his jaw.

"I'm not in the mood for fairy tales, Dean. Is this the way you've been spending your time, making up bed time stories for your little brother?"

"No, sir." Dean unconsciously licks his bottom lip, a true sign of how uncomfortable the situation is making him.

"That's good, because I would be extremely disappointed if that were the case." Dad glares to make his point before continuing. "Since we're out here, how about you show me how much you practiced the combat moves I taught you."

Sammy must finally realize they aren't going to be able to convince their Dad of the truth, because he thankfully remains silent, although he kicks a few grass tufts in mute protest on his way over to the area they use for practice.

Leaning over, Dean whispers conspiratorially to the younger boy, "Don't be upset, squirt. You and I know what really happened and that's all that matters."

The tension in Sammy's small frame visibly dissipates and he slants a secretive grin at his older brother, appeased with the idea of a shared confidence.

Excitement thrums beneath the surface of Dean's skin, he's eager to show Dad the new skills he's worked so hard to learn over the past couple of days. Throwing Sammy a wink, he takes up position facing the man he idolizes, the man whose approval he craves.

In typical John Winchester fashion, Dad calls all the shots, orders burst from his mouth as naturally as water runs downhill. Before long, Dean has successfully performed every technique Dad fires at him.

He takes a tentative step forward when Dad pauses in his commands. "I know other stuff, wanna see?" He asks while bouncing on the balls of his feet expectantly, jittery with anticipation. If Dad's ever going to be proud of him, this is the moment, the chance to prove his worth.

"He's super good, Dad, you should see what he can do." Sammy adds from his self-appointed post beside the make shift sparring/practice area.

He flicks a look of thanks at his brother and then zeros in on his father's face once more. There are dark smudges under the man's eyes that speak of long days and not enough sleep. Dean forgets about demonstrating his proficiency in combat skills for a moment as worry grips him.

"You OK, Dad?" Frowning in concern, Dean feels the mantle of responsibility return to envelope him securely. It had been lifted briefly by Sammy's wish, but his brief respite is over now. His gaze rakes his father for any noticeable injuries, signs of trauma, or hints of pain. Seeing nothing, he relaxes marginally.

"Just tired, that's all. Go ahead and show me what you've got." Dad grimaces and makes a 'go ahead' gesture with one hand.

Practice and true talent make his movements sure, graceful even. Through the whirl of activity, Dean explains the purpose of each maneuver just like 'big' Sammy did for him, not wanting his Dad to misinterpret the flurry as utter chaos. Little does he know there's no way to mistake the obvious finesse with which he executes each exercise.

Breathing heavily, he waits for a response from his Dad at the end of the last roundhouse kick. When Sammy had been training him, there had always been plenty of praise. He'd gotten used to it and now it was conspicuous in its absence. Dean's moss green eyes scan his father's features and the expression he sees there reminds him of the look on Sammy's face when he gets a new toy. Yup, Dad looks as though someone has just handed him a shiny new toy and he can't wait to tear the plastic packaging off to play with it. The air around him seems to grow a few degrees colder and he glances over at Sammy, wondering if the youngster also feels the difference, but the little boy has lost interest in the interaction between the two older Winchesters and is happily playing with a few pebbles.

"Where did you learn all that, son?" Dad's expression has lost its atypical glow and now holds only curiosity.

"Ummm, saw someone else doing it." Not wanting to get into another argument and not wanting to lie straight out, Dean settles for a half truth.

Dad nods slowly, deep in thought, and Dean doesn't know if his father fully buys the answer, but no challenge is issued so he takes that as a positive. After a while the man seems to make a decision, saying briskly, "Tomorrow I'll take you target shooting. I have some research to do and then we're leaving. I need you boys packed up and ready to go by tomorrow evening."

Dean didn't know what he had expected from his Dad, but that hadn't been it. On the other hand, he doesn't know why he would have expected anything different. A 'good job,son' or a 'that was great, Dean' would have been bizarre coming from the man who only seems to spend time with him when it's training related these days.

They all troop into the apartment, Dad to collapse in his bed, Sammy to play with his matchbox cars, and Dean to scrounge together something for dinner.

The next day, Dad takes them out to an empty field at the edge of town, places six tin cans on a wooden fence, and hands Dean a shotgun. Dean hits five of the cans dead center and the sixth one a glancing strike. Sammy asks for a turn, but Dad says he's too young yet, maybe in another year or two. Dean's first time at target practice had been when he was six and he had picked up the skill easily. After that, they switch to a handgun. Handguns are a bit trickier, not as simple to aim. Only three of the cans fly off the fence during the first round. Dad continues to set up the cans until Dean shoots all six off the fence without a single miss.

The rest of the day is spent at the library so Dad can research. Dean keeps Sammy occupied in the children's section. It's not hard, Sammy loves all the books and practically squeals in delight at the train track set up in the middle of the room. All Dean has to do is keep an eye on him as he _chug chug chugs_ a boxcar around the track.

That evening they're packed up and on the road, headed toward Broken Arrow, Oklahoma. It sounds like a romantic place, full of cowboys and indians. Dad won't say much about why they're going there or what they're going to be doing, he rarely tells them about his hunts and Dean has learned not to ask too many questions.

Broken Arrow turns out to be just another small southwestern town with a Qwiktrip convenience store on every corner and not a single teepee in sight. Trailer parks, cow pastures, and the occasional church or school make up the rural setting flashing past the windows of the Impala as they drive down the only road through town. The smell of manure wafts through the open windows and Dean finds the odor not completely unpleasant. It's earthy and warm, like a summer's day with nothing to do but lay in the grass and watch the clouds sail by.

Eventually, the fields give way to shopping centers and housing subdivisions. Dad pulls into the parking lot of a gleaming white condominium building across the street from Briarwood Mall. Their first stop is the condo manager, Mr. Niland's, office where they are courteously admitted.

"Mr. Winchester, please come in. I was told by our association chairman to expect you today. I hear you have some expertise in dealing with...problems such as ours." Mr. Niland ushers the three Winchesters into his office with an outstretched hand, eyebrows raising in astonishment as Dean and Sammy trail in behind their father. "I knew your children were going to be accompanying you, but I didn't think they would be so...young."

"Yes, I do have expertise in dealing with your type of problem and my children are none of your concern. They'll behave, if that's what you're worried about." The eldest Winchester bristles.

"No, no, it's not that." Mr. Niland hastens to explain. "It's just that...whatever is happening here...it's happening to children. I just thought..." Flapping his hands uncertainly, Mr. Niland lets his voice trail off, unwilling to finish his sentence in the presence of the hunter's stony countenance.

"You just let me worry about my kids. Why don't you tell me everything you can about what exactly is happening here so I can do the job you're paying me to do."

"I don't have children myself, but I can tell you what the families who do have children told me. The kids all say they were attacked by a lady with chalky white skin who materialized in their rooms out of thin air and disappeared the same way."

Dad rubs the back of his neck with his right hand, a slight smile playing around his lips. "What does she look like? Has anyone recognized her?"

To Dean, it looks as though his father is pleased with the information he's gathered so far. He'd like to ask what it all means, especially if Sammy might be in danger, but he knows better than to interrupt his Dad when he's interviewing witnesses. Instead, he listens intently while making sure that Sammy doesn't touch any of the papers or pens on Mr. Niland's desk.

"To be completely honest with you, she looks like a ghost. That's what the kids all say. I know it sounds crazy, but there it is. All the kids come up with the same description. She's a young woman, wears a long dress with a high collar, shoulder length dark hair. She only says one thing over and over again, 'How could you do this.' Nobody recognizes her as far as I know." An anxious Mr. Niland paces from one end of the office to the other, hands gesturing wildly. "And the things she does to the children, throwing them into walls, twisting their arms and legs, strangling them...it's barbaric." The manager shivers and shakes his head in empathy.

Dad frowns at the mention of the children's injuries. "Has anything happened here pre-dating the attacks on the children, anything out of the ordinary?"

"Well, let's see, the attacks started two months ago. That's just about the time we started construction on the new addition. It's almost complete now. In fact, that's part of the problem. All of the families who were lined up to move in are now backing out of the contracts and who can blame them. There's just no point in taking that kind of risk with your children."

Dean sees his Dad flinch as the words hit their mark, however, he pretends not to have understood the double meaning. "You've been very helpful, Mr. Niland. Can you tell us where we'll be staying and where the new addition is located?"

The manager takes them around himself. He shows them the entire facility, gives them the grand tour, extols the virtues of the common areas and other amenities as if they're interested buyers. The pool area catches Dean's attention and he wonders how long they're going be here and whether he might be able to talk his Dad into letting him try it out.

Dad seems to pay particular attention when they get to the new addition, asking Mr. Niland questions that Dean isn't close enough to hear. After the tour, they unload the Impala, taking their duffles of clothes and hunting supplies to their rooms on the second floor of the condo's main building.

Once the manager has left them alone, his Dad begins unpacking the weapons, handing Dean a shotgun loaded with salt cartridges. "It's a vengeful spirit, Dean, probably stirred up during the construction for the new wing. A simple salt and burn should take care of it. All we have to do is find the bones." Dad looks positively gleeful, an easy hunt for once, and one he's being paid to do. "This is a good opportunity for you, son. It's still daylight out and spirits generally only show up at night. We can go check out the new addition now, maybe end this today, before it even gets dark."

Dean never second guesses his Dad, the man is a hero in every way as far as he's concerned, but something bothers him about this and it's not just the way the manager was looking at them, talking about how the spirit goes after kids and how all the other families had taken their children away from the perilous location. If it was just him, it would be different. He's totally ready to join his Dad on a hunt, excited to be trusted. He doesn't want to say anything to get himself sent off to a motel room away from the action, and yet...

"Dad, Sammy shouldn't be here." He finds himself voicing his concern.

"It's fine, Dean. You two just stay close to me and we'll be done here before you know it. Spirits follow predictable patterns and this one doesn't come out until after dark." Dad doesn't even look up from his tasks of readying a second shotgun and filling his pockets with the necessary hunting supplies.

They follow the same path to the new wing of the condo that the manager took them on earlier, down the stairs, past the pool, left turn at the mailboxes. No one else is around despite the early hour and Dean pulls the shotgun out from under the light jacket Dad had him wear for the sole purpose of concealing the weapon from prying eyes.

Sammy demands constant supervision at this point to keep him under control. It's been a long day already, much of it spent cooped up in the car and the little boy is quickly running out of good behavior. Dean often thinks that his little brother starts each day with a certain quotient of good behavior and as the day wears on, the goodness meter gets lower and lower. Depending on what happens during the day, the goodness allotment might last all day or it might run out early on. Today, they're on empty and they still have several more hours until it gets dark enough for bed time.

"Stay close to me, Sammy." Dean calls when his little brother wanders off the sidewalk.

"But, I just wanna see somefing over here." Sammy announces defiantly.

Looking ahead, Dean sees his Dad reach the first set of rooms in the almost completed new wing, try the door only to find it locked, and move on down the path to the next set.

"Hey, squirt, I'll race you to the first door of that building. Last one there's a rotten egg." Dean challenges, pointing to the door Dad just passed. Being responsible for a four year old when you're only eight years old yourself, sometimes requires a bit of ingenuity.

Sammy grins and takes off toward the door, knowing that his older brother always gives him a bit of a head start, so he doesn't have to wait for a proper countdown. They reach the finish line at the same time and Dean can't help laughing at the pleased look on the younger boy's face as they touch the door in perfect synchronization. His mirth is short lived, however, when the door falls open at their touch and they both tumble across the threshold before it slams shut behind them.

The shotgun is still clutched tightly in his hand even though his elbow took the brunt of his weight in the fall and it throbs painfully. Sammy sits up and blinks in surprise, unsure whether to be upset by his spill. Dean acts quickly to forestall a tantrum.

"Well, that was funny. You're OK, right squirt?" He hops up and sets the smaller child on his feet, calmly running his free hand over his brother's head checking for lumps. Sammy, reassured by the soothing caress and the older boy's unaffected attitude, decides he is indeed, OK.

Turning around, Dean puts his hand on the door knob and twists, _locked_. He thumbs the locking mechanism and tries again, _still locked_. There's a blur of movement off to his right, a black and white blob floating serenely just within his peripheral vision. Heart jack hammering, he pivots to the right and the shape is no longer there, if it was ever there in the first place. His imagination must be working overtime.

Dean chuckles nervously, takes a deep breath, and exhales a cloud of vapor. The temperature immediately drops forty degrees.

With a flicker of shadow and light, the spirit woman shimmers to life in front of him. Her wild eyes dart from him to Sammy, sizing them each up, taking their full measure. "How could you do this?" She screeches, her voice harsh like violin strings bowed wrong, one finger pointing right at Sammy's trembling chest.

_Not Sammy, not Sammy, not Sammy._

Dean's only thought is to shield his little brother from harm by any available means. Stepping in front of the little boy, he raises the shotgun, positions the butt against his shoulder, and sights along the barrel. The unearthly spirit is too fast though and before he can pull the trigger, she sweeps the shotgun out of his hands. It clatters to the ground, sliding to a stop when it reaches the far wall.

Sammy whimpers his name and the sound galvanizes Dean like no other sound on earth ever could.

"Leave my brother alone!" He yells, fists clenched tightly at his sides.

"How could you do this?" The vengeful spirit grates again, this time staring straight at Dean. Her lips pull away from her teeth in a terrible scowl, revealing blackened gums. The next thing Dean knows he's being lifted off the ground by the woman's clawed hand fisting his jacket, his feet dangling uselessly in mid-air. There's a sensation of rushing wind and then the heavy thump of his body hitting the wall. It all happens so quickly that it takes a while for his brain to catch up to the rest of him. He doesn't feel any pain at first and that's how he knows he's really in trouble 'cause being thrown into a wall should hurt, he's pretty sure about that. When the pain slams into him, it comes from all angles.

She's on top of him in an instant and Dean can't move. In one horrendous moment she has his arm in a cold, steely grip and she's yanking him up, swinging him around, brutally twisting until he hears a crack that sends all coherent thought flying into outer space.

Through the haze of agony he hears Sammy holler his name in what sounds like a blood rage and he sees his Dad through one of the windows screaming and pounding in vain on the pane of glass.

To be continued.

**A/N: After last Thursday's episode, I was desperately craving the good ol' days when it really was Sam and Dean against the world, stronger together than apart, you're my brother and I'd die for you. Man, how I miss it, but that's why there's fanfiction, right? I hope this story hits the spot for those of you who, like me, crave a splash of brotherly love.**

**Yup, still living for the reviews so... if you can spare the time to let me know how I'm doing it would totally lift my spirits.**


	7. Uncle Sammy

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that.**

**A/N: Thank you reviewers, you make me work that much harder to live up to your kind words. I hope all you readers enjoy this installment.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 7 Uncle Sammy**

Sammy watches in helpless horror as the spirit hurls his older brother twenty feet into the far wall, sees Dean's head connect first, shoulders and back next, legs last, hears the sickening thud of flesh and bone meeting an immovable object. He wants to hide and he's scared out of his mind, 'cause even though he knows there are monsters, knows his Dad fights monsters, he's never actually _seen_ one before.

The ghost lady is mean and she's hurting his brother. Dean never did anything to her except to stand up for Sammy and tell her to leave him alone. She looks so mad though and Sammy thinks this might be his fault 'cause sometimes he gets Dean in trouble without meaning to. Sometimes he makes a mess in the apartment and when Dad comes home he gets mad and punishes Dean. Maybe it's like that, but he doesn't remember doing anything bad to the ghost lady. She wears an angry sneer as she flickers and glides closer to where his big brother now lays panting on the floor.

A dark smear of blood paints a gruesome path down the otherwise unmarred cream colored wall, marking Dean's passage. Sammy's lungs seize in terror and he can't breath, can't move, can't stop the hateful apparition from grabbing Dean's arm. The resounding snap of bone sends a shudder down his spine that breaks through the mind-numbing paralysis and suddenly he's not scared any more, he's pissed, furious.

He doesn't even feel the change from cringing child to charging adult when it occurs.

"Dean!" His brother's name rips from his throat like a battle cry.

Sammy's entire universe contracts until it consists only of Dean, eyes saucer wide and glassy, and the spirit of a long dead woman, taking her revenge on those least deserving of it. Red tinges the edges of his vision.

Long legs eat up the distance and in one fluid motion, Sammy nicks the shotgun off the floor, aims with lethal accuracy, and fires. Rock salt explodes across the short gap that separates him from the ghastly phantasm, pelting into the misty form, tearing jagged holes in her ethereal body. The woman wails once and pops out of existence, dropping Dean like a discarded rag. As soon as she's gone, the door springs open.

Sammy barely registers the freedom the open door provides, all his attention on the crumpled and too-still form of his bloody and broken brother. "Oh god, Dean." Crouching down, he reaches out hesitantly, wanting to console, but not sure where to touch that won't cause more pain. The injuries he can clearly see are bad enough, but Sammy's even more worried about the potential for less visible injuries, internal bleeding topping the list. The room is as quiet as a church, Dean's shallow breath hitching in and out the only noise. Silent tears fall from mere slits of green in a face pinched with anguish. Sammy lightly swipes the back of his hand across his suffering sibling's cheeks, brushing the tears away.

The spirit could rematerialize at any moment, they can't stay here. There's no time to wait for an ambulance and paramedics to arrive, not even time to do a more thorough assessment. As much as Sammy hates the possibility that he may further injure his brother by moving him, it's too dangerous to stay put.

"We have to get out of here. I'm sorry, Dean. I'll be as careful as I can." He croons, all too aware that Dean is fighting not to cry out loud, unwilling to show further weakness.

Infinitely gentle, like lifting a newborn, Sammy carefully picks Dean up, supporting his wobbly head and boneless neck. Blood drips from a gash above his ear and his arm juts out at an awkward, unnatural angle. A soft stifled moan, like a wounded animal's cry, escapes his pursed lips when the arm gets jostled and Sammy wishes that Dean would just let go, pass out already, save himself a little bit of the torture. But the stoic boy clings tenaciously to consciousness, eyes latching on to Sammy, stubbornly refusing to give in despite the obvious toll.

"Sorry, Dean, sorry." He hisses breathlessly, unshed tears making his eyes burn with remorse.

It's not until he has Dean securely wrapped in his arms to prevent any additional bumping to his battered body that he looks up and sees his Dad standing in the doorway, effectively blocking the only exit.

"S-sammy? That really you, son?" Shell shocked and frantic, Dad stares disbelievingly at his two sons.

"Yeah Dad, it's me. We tried to tell you." Sammy indicates his incapacitated brother and insinuates that Dad should have listened to their explanation instead of dismissing it out of hand.

Dad strides with newly discovered purpose into the room, eyes darting from one son to the other, arms outstretched. "Give him to me."

Sammy can't imagine what his hunter father must be going through right now, one son gravely injured, the other son instantly aged twenty years right before his eyes, but honestly, he can't find it in himself to really care too much. Not right now, not with his arms full of the one person who pays the price for his Dad's obsession over and over again. The man has seen a lot of crazy things in the last four years, he ought to be able to deal with a simple transformation. No matter how unbelievable the situation may be, getting Dean to safety trumps all other concerns.

"I've already got him, let's just get out of here before the spirit decides she's not done with him." Sammy takes a step to bypass his distressed father.

But Dad's still trying to take Dean out of his gentle grasp, ignoring reason in favor of possessive paranoia, and Dean is flinching away from his father's touch, burrowing further into Sammy with the last of his reserves, moaning weakly. Sammy can't tell whether his brother is making a conscious choice between the two of them, selecting someone who he knows has his best interests at heart, or if he's just afraid of being moved around more than necessary, or if he's so far gone that he thinks the spirit is still trying to inflict more damage, in any case a protective wellspring floods through Sammy's every synapse.

"I want my son, now!" Dad's voice is rough, tense, and thoroughly stressed out.

"I know you're freaking out, Dad, but you need to pull it together and make Dean your top priority for once. He needs a hospital!" Sammy intervenes, shaking off his father's clutching hands, and continuing toward the door.

Distrust written all over his face, Dad makes another grab for his oldest son.

A low keening mewl brings Sammy's attention back to the child trembling against his chest. The sound comes from deep in Dean's throat and one look tells him that his brother is no longer aware of what's happening around him, lost in a fog of pain and possibly going into shock.

"Cut it out. There's no time for this and we're scaring him. We can argue in the car on the way to the hospital or better yet, we can _not_ argue in the car. Either way, we need to get moving." Sammy all but growls.

With an inscrutable expression, Dad snags the now empty shotgun from the floor where Sammy had dropped it, and heads toward the parking lot, casting multiple glances over his shoulder to track his sons' progress behind him, as though he's not sure whether Sammy is going to follow or take off with his eldest in the opposite direction. Taking off isn't a possibility, but Dad apparently doesn't know that and isn't quite sure that Sammy really is…Sammy. But no matter what their Dad thinks is going on, the car is the fastest way to get Dean some proper medical help and since Dad has the car keys, he's definitely following Dad.

"How bad is he?" His father asks as soon as he has the Impala on the road, nose pointing toward the nearest hospital. In his line of work, it pays to scope out the closest medical facility as soon as he hits a new town.

Sammy is sitting in the back seat, Dean cradled on his lap, the eerie mewling noise still vibrating in the back of his throat. "I don't know. He has a broken arm for sure. The spirit threw him twenty feet into a wall." He has to stop to swallow thickly before continuing, the memory playing havoc with his stomach and its ability to contain its contents. "There could be internal damage, concussion, broken ribs. I'm not sure what else."

Dad regards him soberly from the rearview mirror. "Has he moved yet, said anything?"

Shaking his head anxiously, dark hair falling like a curtain across his forehead, Sammy replies, "Not really. I've been trying to keep him as still as possible and he hasn't said a single word since we dispelled the spirit." Speaking more to Dean now than to his Dad, Sammy continues, "You should have seen him though Dad, he was so brave. Not scared a bit, were you, Dean? Bravest kid I know."

There's no noticeable reaction from his brother other than a few sleepy blinks. Dean has not once, ever since the spirit released him, stopped his intense study of Sammy's face and it makes him feel important, like he means something special to this selfless child. He can't imagine a better feeling. But the blood welling from the side of the boy's head and the sounds of lingering torment have the opposite affect, resulting in a constriction around his heart making each heart beat painfully evident.

"How about you? I mean…I saw you change, but…I still don't think I trust my own eyes. Are you… are you OK, Sammy?" His normally imperturbable father's voice cracks on his name, shooting up an octave.

"I'm fine." Sammy speaks slowly. "I know it's a lot to take in all at once, this is new to you, but Dean and I have been through it once already and everything is going to be all right. You can trust me." He meets Dad's gaze in the mirror, steadfast and confident.

The calming tone of his voice has the desired effect on both his Dad, who nods acceptance, and his brother, who's distressed keening finally tapers off.

"Dean certainly trusts you." Dad acknowledges. "You should keep talking to him, it seems to be helping."

"Yeah, Dean and I have been through a lot together." Keeping his tone light, Sammy smiles fondly at the young boy and strokes his fine blond hair away from his face. "Isn't that right, kiddo?"

Dean says nothing, but Sammy thinks he detects the faintest nod of the head.

"It makes sense now." Dad muses out loud.

"What does?" Brow wrinkling in confusion, Sammy tries to divide his attention between his brother and his father.

"I noticed when I got back from the last hunt that you had stopped calling me Daddy and started calling me Dad. It makes sense now." A wry chuckle wafts from the driver's seat.

"Hmmm, yeah about that…I'm twenty four right now. There's no way anyone's gonna believe you're my father. When we get to the hospital, we'll have to say we're brothers, Dean will be my nephew and I'll have to call you 'John'."

"Twenty four, huh? Well, that's a good point then. Don't guess I want a twenty four year old calling me Dad just yet." The disconcerted tone is back full force in John's voice, leaving no doubt that he's still struggling with the turn of events.

The hospital squats three stories high, surrounded by intricately landscaped terraces filled with flowering shrubs and spring blossoms. Although the flowers are meant to be cheery for the convalescing, Sammy can't be bothered to spare them a second glance. Dean's breathing has gotten more labored just in the last couple of minutes and it's all he can do not to scream at John to 'Hurry up, drive faster, why is this taking so long'.

The emergency room is around the back of the building. Whoever thought up that design deserves to be shot and left to meander aimlessly about, searching for the ER entrance while his life blood spills out, Sammy thinks viciously.

As soon as they pull up in the emergency lane, John throws the Impala into park, rushes into the ER vestibule, and demands help for his son in no uncertain terms. By the time Sammy reaches the entrance, gingerly clutching his brother and murmuring nonsense to the boy who has started up his plaintive moaning again, a nurse and an orderly are on site with a gurney.

Sammy carefully arranges Dean on the gurney, being especially gentle with the busted arm, but Dean's agitation increases at the separation.

"What's the boy's name?" The nurse asks as she and the orderly begin rolling the gurney through a set of double swinging doors.

"Dean." Both Sammy and John answer at the same time, easily keeping pace with the fast moving hospital staff.

Efficiency is the name of the game and the nurse never breaks stride as she calls over her shoulder, "Parents and guardians only allowed in the examination room with a minor child. Which of you is the father?"

"I'm his father and this is my brother, Dean's Uncle Sammy." John doesn't hesitate on the lie, pulls it off effortlessly. It's part of what makes him such a great hunter.

"All right, Dad come with me. I'm sorry Uncle Sammy, you'll have to wait here." The nurse, Cathy, if her name badge is anything to go by, gives him an apologetic smile and indicates a waiting room off to the left before continuing down the hallway, John in tow.

Left to stare forlornly as his family disappears through another set of double doors, Sammy fingers the wet splotch of blood on his shirt where Dean's head had rested seconds ago. The sickly sweet smell of hospital disinfectant makes his nose wrinkle in distaste. Sighing out his displeasure, he resigns himself to the typical waiting room fare of pacing and clock watching.

It doesn't take long, however, before the swinging doors open and Nurse Cathy is there, a decidedly harassed look on her face. "Uncle Sammy, we need you in the exam room." Without waiting to see if he's going to comply, she turns around and rushes back the way she came.

No sooner does he enter the exam room than he sees the problem. The orderly is attempting to fit an oxygen mask over Dean's nose and mouth and Dean is fussing, fretting, batting at the orderly with his one good hand. His eyes are rolling wildly, incomprehension in every movement. John is standing next to Dean looking totally out of his element and whatever he's saying to Dean is having absolutely no effect whatsoever.

"We don't want to sedate him until we have a chance to check out his head injury and as you can see, he's fighting us on everything we try to do to help him. His dad seems to think you might be able to calm him down." Nurse Cathy looks as though she doubts there's anything anyone can do to calm Dean down, but she's willing to try calling the President himself if there's a chance at getting her young patient to cooperate.

Sammy crosses the room to Dean's side and enfolds the boy's fluttering hand in his much larger one. "Hey, Dean, it's OK. It's me, Sammy. I'm here and I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you. Relax, kiddo, I've got it all under control." He whispers.

A final whimper and Dean settles under Sammy's calming influence. A hush falls on the room as though the occupants are momentarily stunned.

Nurse Cathy recovers first. "You seem to have the magic touch." She states while fitting the oxygen mask firmly in place, careful not to dislodge Sammy's crucial position next to his 'nephew'.

Working around him, Cathy takes Dean's temperature and his blood pressure, admirably without requesting that Sammy relinquish Dean's hand. While she's examining his pupil reaction, the door to their alcove opens and a middle-aged Asian gentleman in a white lab coat and white sneakers enters.

"I'm Dr. Amora. Who can tell me what happened to our young dare devil here?"

To be continued.

**A/N: Sammy is back in ultra protective 'big' brother mode and Dean doesn't seem to trust his Dad's judgment anymore. Hmmm, I wonder why. In the next chapter we'll find out more about the injuries that Dean sustained and John has some explaining to do. Also, there's still a vengeful spirit on the loose.**

**I rewrote this chapter three times, trying to get the interactions to work out. Believe me, this is much better than my first attempt, but you'll have to be the judge of whether it works now or not. **

**Feedback is greatly appreciated.**


	8. The Diagnosis

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that. Also, I don't work in a hospital and have no medical training.**

**A/N: Ugh, I'm so sorry about the tardiness of this chapter. I was having a hard time alternating between two stories, so I took the time to finish up The Dope that We Smoke and now I can devote myself completely to this one. I'm hoping to get back to a once a week posting schedule, if anyone is still reading.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 8 The Diagnosis**

John shuffles backwards until his back hits the wall, watching as Sammy strides purposefully into the exam room, intent on Dean and Dean alone. He watches Sammy take a hold of Dean's flailing hand, whisper a few words, and magically the child stills. It's humbling and not in a good way. Heat rushes up his neck until his cheeks are blotchy and red. John feels useless and inadequate, not up to the task of consoling his own son.

He'd tried.

He'd been right there next to Dean, made sure Dean saw him, knew he was there. That's all Dean had ever needed in the past, just John's presence to calm him during the rare instances of childhood illnesses and injuries. It didn't work this time though. Dean had gotten more and more agitated, tossing his head so violently it had to have been inflicting more damage to his already battered body, feebly swatting away any hospital personnel who dared get anywhere near him, all while keeping eerily silent. Finally the nurse had looked at John pointedly, obviously expecting him to know what to do and he didn't. He had no clue. Defeated, he'd admitted that Sammy had a better chance of calming Dean down than he did.

Now Dean's hooded, pain-filled gaze is fastened on Sammy, like his brother is the only person in his world, like their connection is the only thing keeping him afloat on a stormy sea. It's touching and John feels a lump growing in his throat along with a twinge of guilt. Even the hospital personnel seem to sense the bond between Sammy and Dean as they move gingerly around the tall young man, careful not to dislodge him from his integral post at Dean's side providing comfort and security to their young patient.

Every once in a while Sammy leans in and cards gentle fingers through Dean's blonde hair, speaks soft, hushed words for Dean's ears only. John can imagine the reassurance although he can't hear it; _you're doing good, don't worry, I'm here, everything's gonna be alright, hang in there._ They're his lines, the words a father is meant to say and John feels like a stage actor standing in the wings watching a stand-in play his part. **Today the role of Dean Winchester's adoring and trusted caretaker will be played by Sammy Winchester**. When had that casting change been made? When had he been replaced?

John looks at Sammy and knows he's his son, but knowing it and truly accepting it are two different things. He's been a hunter for three years now, he's seen some freaky stuff, so it's not too hard to believe that Sammy made a wish to be older and the wish came true, especially when he saw it happen. It's certainly not harder than believing that demons exist and one killed his wife, or that vampires walk around in the daylight and need to be beheaded to kill them, or that rock salt disperses ghosts. His mind recognizes the man with the tousled chocolate brown hair and hazel gold eyes as his baby boy, Sammy, but his heart simply doesn't accept it, not the same way it recognizes and accepts Dean as his son.

A possessive cadence thrums inside him when he thinks about Dean. _My son, my son, my son, my son, my son, my son_. The growing unease at someone other that himself tending to Dean recedes to a background hum only when Dr. Amora enters the room and begins asking questions about Dean's injuries.

This is something useful he can do. There's an art to giving authority figures enough information to get the help or cooperation you need from them without telling them too much of the truth and John has learned that particular skill as part of his arsenal of hunter's tools. He steps forward, hand extended. "Doctor, my son, Dean, was playing on his skateboard and fell down a flight of stairs. I saw him getting too close to the stairs through the window, but he was going too fast and I couldn't get to him in time to stop his fall."

The doctor had mentioned Dean being a dare devil. He probably saw lots of children's injuries resulting from attempts to emulate extreme sports seen on TV. It's easy to get people to believe a lie if you're playing into their preconceived notions.

"Can you give him something for the pain?" Sammy interrupts as though he finds everything else going on in the room of secondary importance to making sure that Dean is as comfortable as possible.

Dr. Amora's intense gaze travels from John to Sammy to Dean then back to John. He gives the impression of a man who doesn't miss much. "I'll need to examine him first. We don't like to administer pain medication to minors unless it's absolutely necessary."

Shifting his focus from Dean for the first time since entering the room, Sammy glares at the doctor saying, "If you're waiting for him to start wailing and screaming like those kids down the hall before you'll give him anything you're making a big mistake. I know my br…nephew and the more pain he's in the quieter he gets. Just because he's not crying doesn't mean he's not suffering." Sammy speaks low and quiet, for Dean's sake no doubt, but his expression is all protective determination and steely resolve complete with flashing eyes and set jaw.

"I'm glad you spoke up, we need to know those types of things in order to treat our patients appropriately." Dr. Amora's warm tone immediately diffuses the tangible tension and he sidesteps John to reach Dean's bedside. "It's Dean, right?" He questions, smiling kindly at the child.

"That's right." John nods once.

"Okay, Dean, can you tell me where it hurts the most?" Eyebrows arch inquisitively as Dr. Amora waits for Dean's answer.

The room is quiet other than Nurse Cathy fiddling with the contents of a cabinet next to the door. Dean's eyes roll, making him appear a little wild. He moans, breath coming in harsh gasps, and tries to burrow closer to his brother, refusing to even acknowledge the doctor's presence.

Sammy reacts to the boy's clinginess by bending his upper body around him in a posture that can only be described as a shield. When it becomes apparent that Dean isn't going to speak to the doctor, he fills the void. "His arm…it's definitely broken, and he hit his head pretty hard, it was bleeding earlier and there's a huge knot. Oh, and he's not moving his legs. I'm not sure what that means." Nervousness makes the words tumble out of Sammy's mouth in a rambling stream.

Nodding his understanding, the doctor risks life and limb by maneuvering past Sammy, the human barrier, and places a hand on Dean's head. He glides it carefully along until he comes to the egg shaped lump and tacky blood tangled in his hair. "Did he lose consciousness?"

"No, but he's disoriented, I'm not even sure he knows what's going on, and he's having trouble breathing." Concern tinges Sammy's voice as he indicates the oxygen mask.

"He was extremely agitated when he first arrived." The nurse agrees, moving away from the cupboard with an irrigation tube and metal basin which she places on the tray table near the bed.

"Any vomiting?"

"No."

"I need Dean to answer this next one." Dr. Amora gives John and Sam and restraining glance before turning back to Dean. "Dean, can you tell me how old are you?"

With a shuddering hitch of air, John's normally stoic eldest son closes his eyes and tightens his grip on Sammy's hand. A single tear squeezes from between his eyelids to trace a forlorn trail toward his temple.

The clinginess has John worried more than anything else because it's such strange behavior for his oldest. Dean had a bit of a mama's boy cuddling thing going on when he was three years old, but…well, obviously that's long gone. Also, the not talking is unnerving. John has seen that before and really doesn't want a repeat performance.

It's hard to tell what the boy is thinking, especially since he won't speak. John wants to make everything better, take the hurt away. No matter how dry and empty he sometimes feels inside, he's not completely without fatherly compassion. He wants to reach out and wipe Dean's tear away and he's just about to step forward when Sammy does that very thing, using the pad of his thumb in a soothing gesture.

"It's okay, kiddo. It's okay." Sammy murmurs.

An odd feeling of being excluded from a very selective club, one not currently accepting new members, sweeps over him. It's followed by a wave of resentment. John shrugs his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the unwelcome feelings.

At some point a blanket had been spread over Dean, covering him up to his shoulders. John doesn't remember when that happened.

Unaffected by Dean's dismissal and Sammy's protective hovering, the doctor flicks the blanket down to get a good look at his patient's arm, grimaces at what he sees. "Yeah, that looks like a nasty break." He confirms. "So, here's what we're going to do, I'm going to order some pain medication and something for anxiety right now." A hasty scrawl on the note pad in his hand is passed to the nurse who takes off to get the requested medicine.

"It will probably make him drowsy and he won't remember much of what goes on. He'll be in a state of conscious sedation. We like to use a child's alertness as a sign of whether they're getting better or worse after a head trauma and we won't be able to do that if the drugs knock him out completely. Next, I'll send him up to get some x-rays of his arm, skull and back. A CAT scan is preferable over a skull x-ray as an x-ray won't tell us if there's bleeding in his brain, however, he would have to remain completely still for at least five minutes for the CAT scan results to be meaningful and he would have to be alone in the room for the procedure. I'm thinking that might not work out for him, so we'll go with the x-rays for now and keep a close eye on him for developing symptoms. You can be right there with him during the x-rays and the x-rays will show if there are any fractures." The doctor pauses to make sure everyone is keeping up with his narration.

"What kinds of things do we need to be watching out for?" John asks. He knows from experience what a concussion feels like, knows what the symptoms are, but this is Dean and, as much as he treats Dean as though he's an adult, the pale figure dwarfed by the hospital bed is enough to remind him that Dean is only a child. Plus bleeding in his brain sounds really serious.

"Don't worry if he falls asleep, that's normal and actually recommended. He's going to need lots of rest and, as I said, the medication is going to made him sleepy. We'll be waking him up periodically to check his alertness and arousability. It will help greatly if he'll answer some questions for us. We can assess his comprehension better that way, but if not, there are other tests we can perform. We'll need to know about any nausea, worsening headache, dizziness, or convulsions, as those could be symptoms of concussion or bleeding and we'll need to get a CAT scan at that point."

Just then, the nurse returns with a syringe and two vials. "Uncle Sammy, talk to Dean. Take his mind off things for a little while."

It's clear she doesn't want Dean focused on what she's doing with the needle and the tiny bottles of clear medicine. Sammy quickly complies while Nurse Cathy measures out the correct dosage.

Ducking down into Dean's line of vision, Sammy starts, "Hey kiddo, you remember that pool back at the condo building where we're staying? How would you like to check it out once you're feeling better, huh? You might not be up to swimming right away, but you could maybe do some wading in the shallow end at first. I know, I know, boring right? Don't worry, it'll only be until you're all healed up. You'll be jumping off the diving board before you know it."

John's not sure what makes Sammy think they're going to be sticking around long enough to go to the pool, but that's not the point and he gets that. Cloudy eyes clear for the first time since the spirit threw Dean into the wall. An emotion that John identifies as hope flits briefly across Dean's face behind the oxygen mask. Sammy looks up and shares a smile with him. It's the first indication they've had that Dean does understand at least some of what's being said to him.

Dean barely flinches when Cathy inserts the syringe needle into his arm and depresses the plunger. The prick of the needle probably pales in comparison to the constant agony in his arm, head, and who knows where else since Dean has yet to complain of other ailments.

Within moments the boy visibly relaxes, the tension in his neck and shoulders melting away. Eyelids droop further closed and small fingers in Sammy's grasp loosen their desperate hold.

The doctor is talking again so John tears his gaze away from his two sons and gives the man his full attention.

"After x-rays we'll give him a local anesthetic and I'll set his arm. We'll see what the other x-rays show us and go from there. How does that sound?" The doctor clasps his hands together over his notepad and waits for John to give his approval even though they both know it's not likely that John's going to object to the plan of action. It's fairly basic after all.

The x-rays go about as well as can be expected. Dean is floating in a medicated haze and is relatively compliant and docile, only expressing his unhappiness and annoyance with a petulant whimper when Sammy has to move away temporarily to let the x-ray technician maneuver him into the correct positions to get the pictures the doctor ordered. The technician seems to be used to dealing with children. She smiles at Dean indulgently and patiently explains what she's doing each time she needs to move him for another angle. Dean's characteristic eye roll at the way she pats his cheek sympathetically doesn't materialize and John finds himself missing it.

Both Sammy and John are allowed to stay nearby throughout the x-ray process. The technician frequently asks one or the other of them to reassure Dean, talk to him, or distract him in some way. The hospital staff are all well versed in distraction techniques and use them whenever their patient begins to show the slightest sign of getting upset. Their efforts and concern certainly make the ordeal less stressful.

Before long the small family of three is escorted to a treatment room in the pediatric department to wait for the x-ray results. They're all alone for the first time since entering the hospital, left to their own devices for the time being.

Their room in an interior one so there are no windows. The stark white of the walls is alleviated with painted circus animals, most notably a large grinning lion opposite Dean's bed.

Dean is intrigued by the lion, gaze never wavering through slow, groggy blinks, brow furrowed in confusion. The drugs are still working just fine then. Raising an uncoordinated hand, he points at the lion and looks at Sammy with a bewildered expression.

Sammy chuckles fondly. "Yeah, I don't know what's up with that lion either, kiddo."

Not talking, his son is still not talking, still needs Sammy close at hand. For his part, Sammy gives in to Dean's every unspoken demand, seems to sense what his brother wants without the benefit of speech, rarely moves more than a few feet away from his side. It's like watching a small sun and one devoted planet orbiting around it. And no, he's definitely _not_ jealous of his sons' closeness.

He does, however, feel as though years of hard work are swirling down the drain. The life he leads is not an easy one and he's been training Dean to live the same life as he does, toughening him up so he'll survive the brutality of it. Every minute in this hospital watching Sammy fawn over the boy is torture plain and simple. The setback to Dean's training could be huge.

At Dean's next beckoning gesture, Sammy crosses the room to him, places a calming hand on his shoulder and John snaps.

"You're coddling him, Sammy. Too much attention's going to make him soft."

"There's no such thing, John." Sammy snaps back. "He needs all the attention we can give him."

John's just about to explain how much he loves them both and only wants them to be prepared and strong enough to handle anything that may come their way, albeit not in exactly those words and maybe a little bit louder than strictly necessary, when Dr. Amora enters the room.

A folder with the corners of x-ray images poking out from the side is held firmly in the doctor's hand. Looking decidedly less friendly than the last time they met, he steps briskly forward. "I have the results of the x-rays." He states, frown lines popping around his mouth and eyebrows.

Sammy is first to react. "What do they tell you?" His worry is palpable.

Heaving a weary sigh, the doctor turns narrowed eyes to John. "I have to tell you that the injuries to Dean's arm are not compatible with a skate board accident or a fall down a flight of stairs."

"What do you mean?"

"The x-rays show a spiral fracture that could only be sustained if the person's arm was twisted with enormous force. It simply isn't possible to achieve that level of damage from a tumble down a flight of stairs." He pauses for effect and then continues. "Additionally, there is a skull fracture and compression of his spine. Is there anything you'd like to tell me before I call social services?"

To be continued.

**A/N: I have two boys of my own and I'm always amused when the doctors and nurses address me as 'mom', never by my name, when I take them in for a check up. I guess it's just easier for them and they know I'll answer to that. I thought it would be funny to have the nurse here call Sam, Uncle Sammy even though Dean never does just because that was the way John introduced him in the last chapter.**

**Feedback is greatly appreciated and loved beyond measure.**


	9. The Question

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that. Also, I don't work in a hospital and have no medical training.**

**A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you. I'm having an absolute blast writing this story. I get to indulge my every whim and what's not to like about that? Knowing that there are other people out there reading and enjoying this story makes me incredibly happy. This fic just reached 100 story alerts, WOOT!**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 9 The Question**

Sammy doesn't know how, but John spins some contrived story about a hand railing and Dean's arm being trapped within the spokes of the railing at some point during his somersault down the stairs and Dr. Amora agrees to postpone his call to social services. His dad is good at the duck and weave, he has to hand it to the man on that count. It's clear from the doctor's continued skepticism, however, that they'll all be under heavy scrutiny from here on out. The call to social services has been delayed, not canceled.

With a sinking feeling, Sammy knows that John will grab Dean and be long gone before social services ever gets there, disappearing off the radar in a way that only John Winchester is capable of, convinced he's doing the best and only thing possible under the circumstances.

Sammy intends to smooth things over with the hospital staff before it gets to that point because Dean really needs to be here, not on the road sleeping in the car or shuffled between hotel rooms.

He wonders if his dad will take _him_ when he high tails it out of here and supposes that has a lot to do with whether he's adult Sammy or child Sammy when the time comes. Surely his dad wouldn't leave him here by himself, would he? An icy trickle of terror accompanies that thought as he contemplates turning back into a four year old after his dad and brother have vanished without a trace.

For whatever reason, he's still grown up Sammy for now. There's no telling how long that will last since John, as their father, is up to the task of taking care of both his sons. Just how literal the wish is he doesn't know. The fact that he hasn't changed back yet leads him to believe his wish encompasses more than just another capable adult being present. Dean must still need Sammy in particular to be an adult. If that's the case then who exactly is he here to protect Dean from; the hospital staff, child protective services, the vengeful spirit…or dad? He doesn't believe that dad would physically hurt Dean on purpose, however, there is evidence to prove that Dean can get hurt by dad's actions purely unintentionally. The proof is lying on a hospital bed not three feet away at this very moment.

Their treatment room quickly becomes a beehive of activity as nurses and orderlies get down to the business of providing state of the art care and treatment for his brother. They bring in a rolling cart laden with materials for setting Dean's mangled arm. A new nurse arrives with a gown for Dean to change into and a pair of orderlies wheel in a portable IV stand with a bag of clear solution hanging from the hook and a heart rate monitoring machine.

Despite his misgivings, Dr. Amora has the x-rays spread out on a light board hanging from one of the circus animal festooned walls. In clipped tones he explains as John looks on intently, "As you can see here…" He points to a spot on the first x-ray. "The bone in the lower arm is splintered in a spiral pattern indicating a twisting motion as opposed to blunt trauma."

John grunts noncommittally.

After a moment's hesitation, the doctor moves on to the next slide. "This is the x-ray of your son's skull. Can you see the tiny white lines branching out from this point?"

"I see them." John rubs the fingers of his right hand over his mouth and frowns.

"Those lines indicate a fracture. The fracture will heal on its own given time and rest. We just need to continue to monitor Dean for the advancing symptoms we discussed earlier."

"No problem, we'll keep a close eye on him."

The doctor looks like he wants to say something else, opens his mouth and closes it soundlessly, then apparently opts to remain objective and silent on the subject rather than antagonize his patient's family. _We'll be keeping a close eye on him as well, _goes unspoken even though Sammy hears it loud and clear.

"The image of your son's spine shows the compression of these vertebrae right here." Pointing to a spot on the lower section of Dean's spine, the doctor turns to look at John. "Spinal compression can be caused by accidental falls and there can also be ligament damage in such cases. I'll know more once I've done a more thorough examination."

"Spinal damage sounds serious. Is that why he hasn't moved his legs?" Genuine fear taints John's voice.

"This type of spinal damage won't result in paralysis, however it could be causing some muscle weakness and numbness in his legs. Again, I'll know more after I've had a closer look."

Sammy has one ear tuned into the doctor's dissertation, but the vast majority of his attention is trained on the activity buzzing around Dean. The kid is doped up and unable to fend off the well-intentioned nurses. The drugs are making him loose and lethargic, so unlike his normal animated state, yet every once in a while the corners of his mouth twitch downward and his eyes dart over to find his brother. Signs that he's becoming uncomfortable with the sheer volume of people he doesn't know and the helplessness he feels. Whenever he senses his brother becoming overwhelmed by the attention of all the strangers buzzing around him, Sammy steps in on his behalf, taking over where he can or asking for some breathing room.

It's almost as if word has spread throughout the pediatric department about the shattered, little boy being admitted to room 118 and every maternal nurse within shouting distance has found one reason or another to pay them a visit. The hospital staff here is probably much too professional for that to be the case, still they seem to have more than their fair share of medically trained personnel working on Dean's case.

"Aren't you just the cutest little thing?" One of the nurses wearing puppy dog scrubs coos at Dean while removing the oxygen mask now that Dean's breathing has become easier, less forced.

Dean tucks his chin into his chest and looks back up at the nurse through lowered lashes. Whether the gesture is deliberate or not doesn't matter, the results are the same. His brother is going to have the girls eating out of his palms of his hands, wrapped around his little finger, use whatever euphemism you want, heck, he already does if this one nurse is anything to go by.

"Awww, baby, are you shy?" The young woman smiles then turns to look at Sammy when Dean doesn't answer.

He hides his snort in a cough. "No, not normally."

Because Dean's not shy at all. Reserved with strangers, taught from an early age not to trust anyone outside of a very tiny circle of people? Yeah, but shy? No.

The instances where he can take over for the nursing staff are admittedly rare, but as soon as he sees the nurse with the child-sized, blue hospital gown position herself to remove Dean's clothing, Sammy scrambles into action, knowing that even dosed with anti-anxiety drugs, his brother will be unnecessarily traumatized by having a stranger undress him.

With good grace and an understanding wink the motherly nurse hands over the hospital gown. "Be careful not to jostle him around too much. He has to remain lying still as much as possible with that back injury." She admonishes before pulling a privacy curtain around the bed.

He's just about completed the painstaking process, a process made even more challenging due to Dean's broken arm and the fact that his unsteady brother is too out-of-it to help at all, when John's cell phone rings and he excuses himself to take the call.

John returns a few minutes later, stands in the doorway, eyes Sammy warily and Sammy can tell he's not going to like whatever his dad has to say. "That was Mr. Niland, the condo manager. He says the condo association will pay Dean's hospital bills."

There must be more to it than that, so Sammy responds neutrally. "That's good news."

"Uh huh." John's grunt is accompanied by a quick glance into the corridor behind him.

Realization hits him like a ton of bricks, John wants to leave. The man honestly wants to leave his eight year old, badly injured son in the hospital to go hunting. The phone call from the condo manager was a catalyst, reminding him of the unfinished hunt for the vengeful spirit. The spirit who attacked his two young sons. So, this isn't just any hunt, it's personal for John now, making him even less able to ignore the pull, the itch. Dad has a vengeance streak of his own about a mile wide.

In a few long strides, he's around Dean's bed and in John's face. "Oh, no you don't. Not now." Sammy hisses loudly enough to get his point across without drawing the ire of the doctor and his staff. "You're not leaving him like this."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean has a lot to think about, unfortunately, his thoughts aren't cooperating the way they should. The problem is, he has some heavy thoughts, they're going to require some major processing, and the way things are going right now…well, he's just not up to sorting through it all. For one thing, his thoughts are jumbled up in some kind of chaotic mess. For another, they're sluggish, snail slow, stuck in a mire of quicksand.

At first, he'd been in so much pain he couldn't think at all, much less make any rational decisions. And now that the lacerating pain has subsided, it's his thoughts themselves creating his anguish. He'd decided early on to keep his mouth shut good and tight until things began to make more sense. He's going to stick with that plan for the foreseeable future.

The crux of the matter is this: Dad said the spirit wouldn't come…and it came anyway. Dad said there was no danger to Sammy and himself…and they had both been attacked. Sammy had only been four years old at the time, if it had been his little brother who had been thrown into the wall, he could very well have died, his tiny, fragile neck snapped in two.

Unthinkable.

Unforgivable.

Dean doesn't know how to reconcile those facts with the image he has of his father.

Three possible reasons for his dad's behavior play dodgeball in his mind: 1) Dad knew the spirit would come and he didn't care that his sons would be its most logical targets, directly placing them in the line of fire. Even innocent bystander Mr. Niland had seen the folly in them being there. 2) Dad really didn't know the spirit would come, which makes no sense, flies in the face of every one of Dean's most sacred beliefs about the infallibility of his father. 3) Dad knew the spirit would come and thought he would be able to protect his sons from the danger, but then failed to follow through on the protection part. This third one is the worse possibility as far as Dean is concerned because it's kind of a combination of the two previous horrible reasons.

So, yeah, heavy thoughts.

And if dad can't be trusted, can't be relied upon…then Dean has no one.

Except Sammy.

He's already lost so much in his eight years; his mom, his home, the dad who used to play catch with him in the front yard, his innocence, his security.

He had adapted to all the loss, remade himself into what his dad needed him to be. Kids are adaptable after all, he's heard that said somewhere.

Here he is facing major loss again in the form of his faith and trust in the only adult he has left, his dad.

But he still has Sammy.

His choices are to embrace the change or be crushed by it, learn to depend on the person he normally takes care of and protects or forsake everyone and everything, trusting only himself.

The easy way out would be to never talk again. Hide behind thick, strong walls of silence and never, ever let anyone else inside. Yeah, that would be easier, but he craves the connection of family. Always has. He loves them fiercely, longs for their affection in return.

Sammy loves him back, he even said it.

Dean yearns for the contact he would normally deny himself, knowing his dad wants him to be independent and self-sufficient.

Sammy doesn't mind looking out for him.

It might only be temporary, Sammy might revert to little more than a toddler at any time. Dean doesn't care. He'll take it for as long as it lasts, he has nothing left to lose.

Goosebumps prickle the skin on his arms. He's cold. His arms feel like they're made out of lead, every movement takes too much effort. There's a tingling sensation in his legs, a numbness, almost as if they've been disconnected from the rest of his body. It would be frightening if he didn't feel so emotionally detached from everything. A creeping exhaustion makes him fight to keep his eyes open, yet he's too disconcerted to let his guard down and succumb completely.

A young nurse with brown shoulder-length hair, the one who had called him 'baby', pushes a rolling cart closer to his bed, picks up a wet cloth from the tray, and begins to rub it gently over a sore spot on his head. It hurts.

He's totally at her mercy, vulnerable and unable to get away, not even able to summon the strength required to flinch out of her reach. She's talking to him, words soft like silk, trying to sooth him. He likes her, she's nice, but she's not one of the favored few and not the one he wants, so he doesn't pay attention to much of what she says.

Sammy is standing nose to nose with dad in the doorway. There's something threatening and wrong about the way they're staring at each other. The nervous thumping of Dean's heart morphs into something closer to frantic pounding. He wants the nurse to stop. He wants his brother to help him.

"S-sammy." He stutters.

Everyone in the small treatment room stops what they're doing to stare at him. Startled by the sudden scrutiny, Dean closes his eyes so he doesn't have to meet anyone's direct gaze.

"It's all right, Dean. Talking's good. You just surprised us, that's all." Sammy's warm hand lands on Dean's chilled arm, rubs up and down a couple times to chase the goosebumps away before moving to settle the blanket firmly under his chin. "Can I do that?" This last part is directed at the nice nurse cleaning the gash at the side of Dean's head.

She nods like this happens all the time and passes the damp cloth to Sammy who begins a rhythmic brushing of cloth over sticky hair, refolding it each time the red smear becomes too prominent against the white of the terrycloth material.

Dean sighs his acceptance, knowing that his brother is on duty with a firm grasp of just how tenuous Dean's peace of mind is at the moment. Once again, he's engrossed in a careful study of the freaky lion with a clown hat perched precariously on top of its mane and a toothless grin.

The doctor's voice brings him out of a light trance. "We're ready to set your arm now, Dean. Do you want to pick the color for your cast?"

The color of his cast seems mundane and in the grand scheme of things holds little importance. This doctor wants him to talk, like it's a game to see what will entice him into opening his mouth. Dean's having none of it. Talking to Sammy is one thing, talking to some unknown man in a white lab coat, doctor or not, is something altogether different.

"All right then." The doctor continues, nonplussed. "I think I'll go with green to match your eyes." He pulls the green roll out of a bin underneath the rolling cart, holds it out for inspection.

"That works." Sammy agrees, drawing the doctor's appreciative glance.

"Has he gotten any sleep yet?"

Dean feels his eyelids slip closed at the doctor's question, as though the stethoscope gives him some weird power of suggestion. Dean forces them open again.

Sammy answers, "No, he's been awake since the accident, a bit spacey at times, but it's like he won't quite let himself go all the way."

"Well, it's been hectic with the x-rays and everything. Once we've got his arm set and I've taken a look at his back, it'll settle down in here. He can get some rest then."

He completely misses the nurse sneaking up on him with the shot until after she's already poked him in the arm. She must be some kind of stealth ninja nurse, Dean thinks while yawning widely. The dull ache in his damaged arm evaporates, replaced with a cool sensation that feels like his arm has been lowered into a tub of water. It's bliss. His head lolls to the side.

The rest of the procedure goes unnoticed by Dean as does the remainder of the doctor's examination.

Dean is shocked into sudden awareness by a woman standing over him. His fuzzy mind skips backwards to earlier in the day and the ghost lady bending down to grab his arm. In a frenzy, Dean struggles to escape, limbs thrashing weakly, one arm stiff and ungainly in a forrest green cast extending from his wrist up beyond his bent elbow. A wail grows low in his throat and his breathing becomes erratic, loud choking gasps fill the otherwise quiet hospital room as he realizes how utterly helpless he is.

Dad wedges himself between the woman and the bed, filling Dean's field of vision. "Dean, you're in the hospital. You're safe. Do you hear me? You need to calm down or you're going to hurt yourself."

The nurse peeks at him from where she's retreated across the room and yeah, she's just a nurse.

Feeling dizzy from ebbing panic and the drugs being pumped into him through his IV, Dean flounders with what's reality and what's nightmarish memory.

He only has one thing he wants to say to his dad, one question he has to know the answer to. Nothing's more important to him than that dad get the answer to this one question right.

"Why'd you take us there, dad? She could have killed Sammy. Why'd you do it?"

To be continued.

**A/N: Lot's of introspection and not a lot of action in this chapter. I apologize for the lack of excitement and hope you liked it anyway. Please review and let me know what you think.**


	10. The Answer

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that. Also, I don't work in a hospital and have no medical training.**

**A/N: Thank you to my wonderful readers. I hope you enjoy this installment. I don't seem capable of writing a schmoop-free chapter, not that I'm actually trying mind you. ****We're back tracking a little bit here for Sammy's POV.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 10 The Answer**

So, the doctor has agreed to hold off on calling social services…for now. Dad has agreed not to leave the hospital in pursuit of the angry ghost woman…for now. Dean is asleep with his right arm in a cast past his elbow…at last.

In keeping with the circus theme of their room, Sammy feels like a juggler who has one too many balls in the air at the same time. As soon as the first one falls, they're all going to come pelting down all around him, it's a given and he accepts it. In fact, let's make that chainsaws. He's juggling chainsaws, because where's the skill and danger involved in juggling balls?

Dean had slept through Doctor Amora's examination of his back which was an amazing feat given that the doctor had rolled him onto his good side and Sammy had braced him there with his hip and both hands so he wouldn't flop over onto his stomach. The poor kid never even batted an eyelash through the entire thing.

His back looked like one giant bruise and Sammy found it impossible to tell the difference between one section of mottled skin or another, but the doctor had pointed to a puffy, inflamed looking spot and declared the compressed vertebrae were in that area. The damage was extensive, most likely causing extreme pain and affecting the function of his legs. As the doctor left the room to go order an MRI of Dean's entire spine he wondered out loud how Dean had stayed conscious and as aware as he had been with the level of injuries he had sustained, not to mention going through what he had without a word of complaint. Sammy had felt like he was going to be physically ill at the thought.

It's been a long, harrowing day. Just this morning he had been four years old and riding in the backseat of the Impala with his brother. They hadn't even had a chance to unpack at the condo before Dad had armed Dean and taken them both out hunting. Now they're in the hospital and the day is beginning to take a heavy toll on Sammy. His eyes are burning and gritty, his mouth is dry, and his nerves are shot to pieces.

"I'm going to grab some coffee while Dean's asleep, you want anything?" He asks his father, rubbing a weary hand across his face.

"Coffee sounds good. I'll stay with him." John indicates his sleeping son, leans against the wall, and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"I'll need some money." Sammy gives his dad a rueful smile and John digs his wallet out of his back pocket, passes him a couple of bills. "Thanks, I'll be right back."

The coffee is easy enough to find, there's a kiosk in the front lobby selling coffee and pastries. The pastries look to be left over from that morning. He buys two coffees and two blueberry muffins anyway and sinks into the cushions of a loveseat in the nearby waiting area, groaning at the sensation of finally taking the weight off his legs and feet. The coffee tastes fresh at least.

Sitting with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, Sammy gives himself a quick minute to decompress. This 'being a grown up thing' takes a lot out of him. It only happens when he has to step up to the plate, take charge, actively play a role in his brother's well-being. He doesn't want to be away from Dean for long, but he needs some time to get his head on straight.

A few deep cleansing breaths later and he feels better, ready to take on whatever happens to come his way next. He thinks he's ready that is, until he makes the turn into their corridor and hears a god awful sound.

A choking gasping moan.

Although he's never in his life heard his brother make a sound like that, he knows without the shadow of a doubt the noise is coming from Dean.

With his heart hammering triple time, Sammy tears down the hallway, steaming hot coffee sloshing unheeded onto his hands from the mostly full styrofoam cups.

His father's deep commanding rumble cuts through the noise and subdues Dean's cry through sheer forceful volume. The warbling sob hangs in the air like the final note of an aria.

Sammy finally reaches the open doorway in time to see John lightly restraining Dean, who looks like he's trying to scramble backwards without much success. A tall thin nurse in white scrubs stands behind John looking perplexed and a little guilty. Before he can step into the room, Dean seems to get control of himself and he speaks his first full sentences since the fight with the spirit.

"Why'd you take us there, dad? She could have killed Sammy. Why'd you do it?"

For as terrified as he had looked just moments ago, Dean has still managed to ask dad a darn good question. Even though Sammy would like to rush into the room to make certain his brother is all right, he's not going to provide a distraction and let John off the hook that easily. Even though the nurse is still in the room wearing an expression that's way too curious to be a good thing, Dean has asked a legitimate question and he deserves a legitimate answer. Sammy can't wait to hear John's response himself.

"It was an accident, Dean. That's all there is to it. Sammy didn't get hurt." John's gruff answer is a disappointment. It isn't really an answer at all and the only reason Sammy didn't get hurt is because Dean had stepped into the line of fire, offering himself up like a sacrifice.

Dean's eyes lose focus and a misty film obscures his normally vibrant green irises. At first it appears as though Dean is simply as baffled by John's comments as Sammy feels, but it soon becomes evident something else is wrong, very wrong.

"Sammy, did she get you?" Confusion lurks heavy in Dean's tone and Sammy's pretty sure he's lost the pure lucidity from a few moments ago.

Placing what remains of the coffee and muffins on the nearest surface he can find, Sammy quickly closes the remaining space to his brother's bedside and blocks as much of the nurse's view as he can. "She didn't get me, you made sure of that. Don't you remember?" Somehow he knows exactly what twilight zone Dean has drifted into, one in which a ghostly woman is savagely assaulting two small boys.

Dean is pushing himself up in the bed, voice wavering and edging toward frantic. "I dropped the gun. Can you reach it? Hurry, before she comes back!" His gaze rakes the floor as if he's going to see the shotgun lying in a corner.

Eyes wide and mouth slightly open, the nurse shifts from foot to foot, trying to decide on a course of action. If she decides to leave the room now, it's a toss-up as to whether she'll be going to fetch the doctor or security.

He's back at the circus again, this time as a tightrope walker. The tightrope between being honest enough to keep Dean calm and being too honest and upsetting the delicate truce they have with hospital administration is a narrow one indeed. A little desperately, Sammy says. "You don't need a gun. It's all good, I promise."

But Dean's not looking at him, doesn't seem to see anything. "I do. I need it. Dad gave it to me, he wants me to shoot her."

John jerks a little at that, opens his mouth and then just freezes in place, breathing loudly.

Willing John to say something, anything, Sammy curls his fingers around Dean's uncast wrist, brushing his thumb across the almost hysterical child's clawed knuckles. "Dad's right here. He doesn't want you to shoot anyone."

"She's gonna get you if I don't." Dean's voice is losing its strength, words running together in a dreamy slur.

Sammy realizes it's up to him to bring Dean back from whatever frightening dreamscape his mind has conjured up. He cups his hands around both sides of Dean's face to form a frame, angles their heads together, and pleads, "I'm fine and we're safe. Please, kiddo, c'mon back to me."

Dean bucks once, his entire body shudders and his breath catches for one long minute. On the exhale his eyelids flutter closed, body going limp in Sammy's grasp.

One of the monitors attached to Dean starts a mournful beeping.

The voyeuristic nurse leaps into action, glancing at the monitor and pressing the call button before inserting herself next to Dean so she can check his breathing. "Dean, wake up, honey."

Nothing.

"What's going on? What's wrong with my son?" John finally finds his voice.

As a slew of hospital personnel in a rainbow variety of scrubs come streaming through the door, she backs John and Sammy away from Dean's bed. "We don't know yet, but we're going to find out. You need to give us room to work."

Sammy strains to catch a glimpse of his brother through the swarm of people trying to help him. His heart is slamming so hard inside his ribcage he thinks his ribs might actually crack. He can't imagine anything worse than this ever happening to him, because he doesn't even know if Dean's breathing, can't even tell if Dean's alive.

Dr. Amora enters the room, obviously having been paged. He gets an update on his patient's situation from the staff already in the room. Vitals and statistics that have no meaning for Sammy are being reported in urgent voices.

When they transfer Dean to a gurney and roll him into the hallway, both Sammy and John attempt to follow. They're stopped by the distracted doctor who explains, "He's all right for now. His oxygen levels fell, but he's breathing fine. We're going to take him for that CAT scan to see what caused him to pass out. You'll have to stay here. I'll be back to let you know as soon as we have some results." And with that he's gone.

Waiting is interminable. Waiting for someone to come give them word on Dean is horrifying…exasperating…he can't even think of words to describe his level of frustration. Sammy's whole purpose revolves around keeping Dean safe and right now he doesn't know what's happening to his brother.

By the looks of him, John's no better off. Both men pace in turns, start conversations only to have them dwindle and die a lingering death. There's nothing to talk about past, 'What could be taking so long?' and 'Why hasn't the doctor come out yet?' Nothing that holds Sammy's interest anyway. Accusations stick in his throat, but they won't further Dean's cause at this point, so he holds on to them, pushes them back, and keeps his own counsel.

During his fifth trip to the nurse's desk to badger, no make that cajole, them into giving him some news on Dean's condition, Dr. Amora appears through a set of swinging doors nearby. His deliberate pace and expressionless brown eyes give away nothing. Sammy wonders if all doctors have to practice that contradictory look of concerned detachment or if it just comes naturally to those who choose the medical profession. The first words out of the doctor's mouth make him feel like a judgmental jerk.

"I'm sorry we had to rush Dean off like that. I know you must have been terribly worried, he gave us all a scare, but he's going to be fine."

Relief drops Sammy into the nearest chair, his legs suddenly useless.

John's right there, placing a hand on the top of Sammy's head, a familiar gesture given when his father want to show support, love, care, all the things he seems incapable of expressing in words. Sammy basks in the warmth while listening to the rest of the conversation. It surprises him how much his heart lightens at the simple show of solidarity.

"What happened? Where is he? Can we see him?" John's questions trip over each other in a competition to see which one makes it out first.

"There is some bleeding and swelling in his brain. It's relatively minor, but we could see it on the CAT scan. He came around right as we were taking him in to radiology, so we had to sedate him."

Sammy's head pops up from where it had fallen loosely onto his chest, dislodging John's hand.

"It's all right." The doctor hastens to reassure him. "The technicians got him in for an MRI of his spine as well as the CAT scan while he was out. We're treating him now with a course of anti-inflammatory drugs which will also help with the swelling around his compressed vertebrae and the bleeding in his brain has stopped. He should make a full recovery, no permanent damage." The wide smile masks any suspicion the doctor may still harbor about Dean's family life.

For now the three men are united in their happiness over a young boy's prognosis.

Dean's still knocked out on sedatives and pain medication when he's returned to their room. The hospital routinely encourages parents to stay overnight with their young children and two of the more comfortable lounge chairs are brought into the room to accommodate John and Sammy.

"He'll probably sleep all night, so you can relax and get some rest as well." A new nurse who just came on for the night shift and introduces herself as Meghan tells them.

The chair is heaven sent and Sammy is asleep before Meghan finishes recording Dean's vitals on his chart and turns off the overhead lights.

A low murmur of voices wakes him the next morning. The crick in his neck loudly proclaims that he slept in the same position all night long and even though it's a very comfortable chair, it's still a chair and not a bed. Sammy sits up, rolls his shoulders, lets his head fall in a lazy circle on his boneless neck until he can hold it up without wincing.

John's conversing with Meghan in hushed tones which Sammy can just barely make out.

"Yes, he'll be waking up soon, but he's on a lot of medication so you shouldn't expect him to be completely coherent right away." Meghan says in answer to John's latest inquiry.

"What kind of treatment will he need?"

"The most important thing will be for him to rest. The drugs we're giving him will keep the swelling down and given plenty of bed rest, he'll heal up good as new."

"That's really good news, thanks."

Stretching out the lingering kinks, Sammy returns Meghan's smile when she closes the door behind herself. As soon as she's gone, he leans against the side of Dean's bed, wanting to see for himself that his brother has survived the night unscathed, or at least having sustained no additional wounds.

Dark smudges under his eyes give Dean a haunted appearance. A blanket covers him up to his chest and both his arms lie on top, a sling holds his right arm in position. The only discernable movement is the steady rise and fall of the blanket as he breathes and even that's more of a hope than something actually visible. He looks otherworldly, so peaceful that it almost hurts to look at him and Sammy screws his eyes shut for a minute. The thought 'too good for this world' comes to him unbidden and then Sammy has to touch, has to prove to himself that the peace isn't an illusion, that his brother hasn't been transformed into a marble sculpture while he slept.

Tentatively, he picks up Dean's lax left hand, traces the life line on his palm. It's warm, soft, real, and Sammy's stomach slowly unclenches.

"Morning sleepy head." His father's hand lands heavily on his shoulder.

Sammy grimaces, rubs some grit from his eyes, and turns to regard his dad. "Morning. Hey, sorry I passed out on you last night. I must have been more tired than I thought."

John chuckles quietly. "No problem. You had a pretty rough day." Hair sticks out at odd angles, attesting to John's night spent in the other chair.

"Mmmm." Sammy hums in agreement, not all the way awake yet.

"So, I've been thinking."

Immediately Sammy's on red alert, not liking the way his dad cuts his eyes sideways instead of looking directly at him. "About…"

"Dean's going to be laid up here for a while and I haven't exactly been nominated for 'father of the year' by the hospital staff. It might be better for Dean if I make myself scarce, give them less reason to call in social services, kind of out of sight out of mind, you know?" John rubs a hand through his hair, smoothing down the wayward tufts.

It's not too hard to figure out where this is going, but Sammy's going to make his dad spell it out. "Yeah, so where're you going to go?"

"Might do some research, try to dig up some dirt on our historical lady friend."

The play on words isn't lost on Sammy. He scowls at John's playful wink, shakes his head, knows he can't stop the man and there's no use in fighting it anymore. He can't help giving it one last half-hearted try. "You should stay here, John. He's going to ask for you when he wakes up."

The gaze John rests on Dean holds more sadness than Sammy would have guessed. "He hasn't been overly concerned about my whereabouts lately."

Sammy's really not in a position to argue that point so he lets it slide by without comment. There is another issue he's been meaning to bring up, now seems like as good a time as any. "What if I change back while you're gone?"

John allows the change in topic and picks up on Sammy's meaning easily. "Do you think you will? I'll stay if you think you will."

"No, I don't think so, especially if you're not here. I mean, I haven't yet, so…" He doesn't go into his speculation as to why that might be and John doesn't ask. They're both probably better off without another item of contention between them. "You'll check in with us regularly then?" Sammy knows when it's time to cut his losses and move on.

"I'll be back by this evening. No worries." A bump of shoulders conveys about as much affection as John can muster.

"Right, no worries."

"You'll look out for him?" John brushes his fingertips tenderly across Dean's cheek.

Dad can be tender, who knew?

"Of course." Sammy sighs. As if there's any question.

To be continued.

**A/N: Stay tuned for Dean's reaction to their dad leaving and the hunt coming up in the next chapter. If you could take some time out of your busy schedule to let me know how I'm doing I would truly appreciate it. Reviews are cherished and loved as though they were part of the family.**


	11. The Argument

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that. Also, I don't work in a hospital and have no medical training.**

**A/N: I know I said we'd have the hunt in this chapter, but then Sam and Dean and even John decided there were certain conversations they needed to have and this chapter got way too long, so I had to cut it off before we got to the hunt. Sometimes my characters get away from me and I can't always control them. It makes writing these stories an adventure for me. I usually know where we're going to end up, but not how we're going to get there. I hope you enjoy this chapter anyway and you have the hunt to look forward to in the next chapter! I promise!**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 11 The Argument**

The television bolted to the wall in their hospital room is fairly impressive, better by far than the one in the last apartment they lived in. It gets all the cable channels and the reception is excellent. Sammy finds a cartoon he thinks Dean will like and then mutes the volume.

Cathy's shift had started about an hour ago. Sammy knows this because as soon as she arrived at the hospital she had come to see how Dean was doing even though she doesn't work in the pediatric ward. They must have made quite an impression on her yesterday, either that or news of Dean's suspicious injuries and delirious ramblings are the subject of gossip around the nurses' water cooler, coffee pot, break room, or wherever. She's either concerned or curious. Either way, Sammy is the recipient of several used suspense novels she gifts him with to help him pass the time and a bagel for his breakfast.

Although he has several forms of entertainment as his disposal between the television and the books, Sammy finds his attention drifting to his brother more often than not.

Dean has been trying to wake up for a while now, twitching his fingers and snuffling quietly. It shouldn't be so endearingly mesmerizing, but Sammy finds himself analyzing his brother's every sigh.

Their daytime nurse, Sharon, comes into the room frequently, fiddles with gauges on the various machines, jots down readings, takes Dean's temperature, his blood pressure, and talks to him constantly the entire time she's in the room, a random stream of consciousness, her voice honey mellow. _How're you doing, Dean?...Look at that, you're blood pressure is nice and low, just the way we like it…You have a very patient uncle who hasn't left your side for more than five minutes at a time._ If she wonders where John went, she doesn't mention it.

"Talk to him." She encourages Sammy. "He can hear you even if he can't respond yet. It doesn't really matter what you say, it's more the tone of voice you use."

Sammy likes the idea of letting Dean know he's not alone, that he has someone waiting for him. Although he feels somewhat self-conscious with Sharon standing next to him, he's never had a problem finding something to say. "Whenever you're ready to wake up, Dean, I'm right here waiting for you."

Dean turns his face slightly towards the sound of Sammy's voice.

"See, I told you." Sharon grins at the validation. "He recognizes you. He doesn't react to me when I talk to him. Keep going." She prods his arm as though he needs additional enticement.

Reaching out to clasp Dean's wrist, he continues, "I found Batman cartoons on TV. They're your favorite, right? I can't guarantee how long they'll be on, but there's a whole station devoted to cartoons, so there's bound to be something good on whenever you decide to join us."

Dean's eyes crack open and slide slowly to Sammy's face.

"Welcome back, kiddo." Sammy whispers, cognizant of his brother's partially aware state.

Several bleary blinks later, sleepy eyelids slip closed again.

Disappointed, Sammy looks over to Sharon for her assessment.

"That's perfectly normal. He just needs a little more time. The sedative's still working it's way out of his system."

Nodding, Sammy leans back in his chair, content to wait. "Cold medicine affects him the same way."

It's late morning before Dean surfaces again. Sammy is engrossed in one of the novels, Watchers by Dean Koontz, so enthralled in the adventures of the golden retriever with human level intelligence bonding with his new family while being hunted by a grotesque beast, he misses the first signs of his brother's alertness.

"Sammy, s' quiet in here. S' like a library." The boy's garbled words attest to how groggy he still is.

Beaming widely and flashing deep dimples, Sammy scoots his chair closer to the bed, wanting to make sure he doesn't miss anything Dean has to say. After all, Dean hasn't been sharing many of his thoughts up to this point and if he's going to be talking, it would be a shame not to catch parts of it because he's too far away. "Hey, Dean, yeah it's quiet 'cause you were sleeping. How are you feeling?"

"M' not sleepin'" Indignant eyebrows meet in the middle of Dean's forehead.

"No, you're not sleeping now, but you were sleeping just a little while ago." Sammy's having a little too much fun with this groggy version of his brother. Dean's a tad on the goofy side and pretty cute when he's doped up and not as upset as he was yesterday.

Dean seems to think about the plausibility of Sammy's assertion then shrugs a maybe.

"You remember where you are?"

After looking around the room, gaze taking in the equipment, white walls, painted circus animals, Dean hazards a guess. "Doctor's?"

Close enough. "Yeah, hospital. Do you remember what happened? Why you're in the hospital?" Sammy fervently hopes his brother remembers what happened to land him in the hospital, dreads having to be the one to explain it to him if he doesn't. There would be no way to do it without implicating their father and Sammy can't watch the devastation caused by the revelation that their larger-than-life father isn't perfect. Not again.

"Ghost was mad at me…hit the wall…um…my arm?" At mention of his arm, Dean looks down, taps on the cast experimentally, shifts it in the sling, testing range of motion. There isn't much.

"She got you all right, but wow Dean, you saved me. You were amazing!" If Dean never hears it from anyone else, Sammy wants to make sure his brother hears it from him.

The praise seems to remind Dean of the one other person he'd like to hear say those words. "Dad's not here. He left." And it's a statement, not a question. The boy expects to be left behind, never more so than when he's sick or vulnerable, unable to contribute. Like if he can't hunt, Dad won't want him around. Some of Dean's drive makes a lot of sense when seen in this context.

"He's coming back, Dean." Sammy strives to reassure his suddenly too thoughtful brother without making any promises beyond his control to keep.

Dean swallows, looks at the television. Classic avoidance.

Sammy hates that Dean thinks his dad only loves him for the things he can do and not for the wonderful kid he is. He struggles with what to say to make things better. "Hey, it's just you and me for now, but that's all right. We'll take care of each other. We always do."

A pause stretches out between them while Dean mulls things over, searches the scratchy hospital blanket for any opposing point of view, and comes to a conclusion. Finally, he repeats. "We'll take care of each other. We're gonna be okay." His chin wobbles and his lashes are wet, but the look he gives Sammy is filled with determination and affection.

Dr. Amora comes by on his rounds not too much later. He's already heard from the pediatric nurses and knows Dean is awake, knows Dean has started talking, mostly to Sammy, but at least he's talking to someone.

The smile he offers Dean wilts when he turns to look at the tall young man blocking access to the child. His expression is pinched and Sammy recognizes suspicion, having been the unfortunate recipient of the emotion from this man previously. "Can I speak with you in private for a moment?"

"Of course, is everything all right?" Sammy worries his bottom lip between his teeth as he leads the way into the empty corridor outside of Dean's room.

Instead of answering the question, the doctor asks one of his own. "Where is the boy's father? None of the staff have seen him today and this concerns him as well."

"He had some business to attend to, but he'll be here this evening. He left me to take care of anything having to do with Dean. Is there something wrong?" Hands pushed deep into his jean's pockets, Sammy concentrates on looking sincere and harmless. Anything he can do to forestall the inevitable.

The inevitable comes regardless. That's why it's called inevitable.

"It has come to our attention that Dean may have been exposed to situations inappropriate for a child his age. I feel as though it's my duty to call in child protective services and I've called for a psychiatric consultation."

Sammy hears very little of what comes next. His mind races ahead to plan their escape. The last thing Dean needs is to be subjected to a psychiatric evaluation. Well meaning or not, it would probably rip him apart. He's not ready to put on a brave face and charm his way through endless questions about how his dad treats him and what his home life is like. He's not up to strapping on a fake mask, not yet, and maybe not ever again. The freckle faced boy will do whatever it takes, no matter the cost to himself, to keep what's left of his family whole and Sammy doesn't want to watch his brother sacrifice himself over and over.

By the time Dr. Amora takes his leave, Sammy has developed the sketchy basis of a rescue mission. Taking Dean out of this hospital is just about going to kill Sammy because Dean needs the medical care, but deep down in his heart he knows things will only get worse from here. So, Sammy, not John, will be the one snatching Dean and running for the hills. The irony smacks him right between the eyes, leaves him doubled over gasping for air, and changes not one darn thing.

He'll wait for John to get back for as long as he can. The psych evaluation is scheduled for tomorrow morning and child protective services won't arrive until after the evaluation has been completed. As long as John keeps his word and returns this evening they'll have plenty of time to smuggle Dean out. In the meantime, Sammy pumps the nurses for any information he can get on the medicine and therapy his brother will need, hoping all the while the nurses see his questions as well-intentioned concern for the remainder of Dean's hospital stay. Treatment consists mainly of rest, rest, and more rest coupled with pain management and medications for swelling and muscle relaxants, easily accomplished anywhere and not requiring a hospital environment for which Sammy sends forth thoughts of gratitude to the universe at large. Guilt still gnaws at him incessantly.

John arrives right on schedule and Sammy gives him the low-down on the situation in whispered tones so as not to wake a sleeping Dean. Predictably, their dad is easy to convince. Liberating medical supplies from a hospital is one of the many things Sammy knows how to do without remembering where or when he learned the skill. Nevertheless, John gives him a completely unnecessary lesson during the hours between dinner and the evening nurses' shift change.

The nurses typically congregate around the main pediatric desk before their shifts end so they can appraise their replacements of any unusual cases or special circumstances. This evening is no exception and the Winchesters take full advantage.

Oh, so very carefully, they truss Dean up in his blanket, gather their belongings and the confiscated medical supplies, and creep down the seldom used back staircase, evading nurses and doctors alike. The entire operation takes less than fifteen minutes and no one's the wiser. Easy as pie.

It's John's turn to carry his son, he makes that perfectly clear as though he's re-asserting his parental rights, leaving Sammy to carry everything else.

Dean puts up with the relocation without a word, but he's stiff , uncomfortable at being carried, eyes shuttered in embarrassment at his weakness. Having slept off and on most of the day, he's wide awake now, absorbing the nervous energy from his dad and brother.

"Settle, Dean." John commands.

The effect is instantaneous. Dean melts into the haven of his father's arms, complacent and docile. Elusive safety achieved and permission granted in two short words.

Sammy wonders at the resilience of his brother's faith in their dad. He's not sure whether to be happy or sad about Dean's capacity for forgiveness. Possibly it's nothing more than a reflex, ingrained muscle memory from years of dependence. One thing's for sure, Sammy isn't about to begrudge the troubled boy his fleeting feeling of security any where he can find it, any way he can get it.

The moonlit night keeps their secret well, near darkness cloaks their trek across the hospital parking lot to the Impala. The creaking of the car's doors makes Sammy cringe even though there aren't any people around to hear. They bundle Dean into the back seat and this time Sammy sits in the front passenger seat. It feels strange and he realizes this is the first time he's ever ridden up front. Weird.

"Where are we going to go?" He asks as they approach the nearest surface street.

Both John's eyebrows go up in surprise like he doesn't understand the need for the question. "What do you mean?"

"Well, obviously we can't take Dean to the condo, right? Because that would be insane. So, where are we going to stay?"

John stares straight ahead, taps one gun-calloused fingertip on the steering wheel, and eventually turns on the left turn indicator. "We'll find a motel." He acknowledges.

Sammy will probably never know if that was his intention all along or not. Honestly, he doesn't want to know.

Tulsa, Oklahoma is a large enough city to get comfortably lost in and it's close enough to the small town of Broken Arrow to enable John's continued hunt for the vindictive child-mauling spirit. He'll have to work undercover now since the hospital will certainly inform the condo association and CPS might pay Mr. Niland a visit in the very near future, obtaining the contact information from the insurance paperwork. So, yeah, there's more than one reason for ditching the condo.

There's no question as to whether or not dad will see the hunt to it's conclusion. The man never walks away from a case, doesn't have it in him to leave an evil creature behind once he knows it exists.

They check into a motel in the heart of downtown Tulsa, paying extra for double beds and a cot. The room smells predominantly of stale cigarette smoke with an undercurrent of dirty socks. Customers loitering at the 24-hour convenience store across the street provide a backdrop of noise and the occasional loud bark of laughter. Home sweet home for the foreseeable future.

Dean had a full round of medication at the hospital right before they flew the coup, so he's not due another dose for a couple of hours. It's late, way past his bedtime by any standards, and he falls asleep as soon as John places him in a nest of blankets and pillows on the bed closest to the bathroom. Sammy hopes the boy likes that particular bed because he'll be spending a lot of time on it for the next however many days, maybe even weeks.

John takes the other bed and Sammy stretches out on the cot. The canvas and wood structure is surprisingly comfortable, long enough to accommodate his 6' 4" frame.

Worries about how they're going to afford to stay in the motel while John hunts, what to do if Dean doesn't get better or if he gets worse, where they'll have to go if CPS finds them, and a host of other problems bombard him while he resolutely closes his eyes and tries to go to sleep. Despite the annoying thoughts swirling through his mind, the sounds of deep breathing from the beds on either side of him eventually lull Sammy into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Dean is restless and crabby, impatient with the results of the muscle relaxants which cause him to feel like he's made out of rubber. Entertaining him soon tops Sammy's list of priorities after listening for the umpteenth time to a litany of how boring it is to be restricted to bed rest. And this is only the first day. A trip to the convenience store generates a deck of playing cards, a couple of word find activity books, and breakfast.

From there one day flows uneventfully into the next.

John spends most of his time in Broken Arrow, researching the history of the site where the condo is located, discreetly talking to those families he can find whose children were assaulted by the spirit, digging, both literally and figuratively, around the new wing of the condo at night when no one else is around, and perusing old records for unusual deaths involving a woman and one or more children.

When he's not working on the hunt, he's hustling pool at the local bars and pool halls. There are plenty to be had in Tulsa and the surrounding towns. He comes back to the motel mostly to sleep, sometimes to catch a quick meal from the convenience store with Dean and Sammy.

Dean recuperates with Sammy's help. He chaffs at the inactivity, like any eight year old boy would, but between the two of them they find ways to amuse themselves. Sammy monitors Dean's medication and physical therapy regimen, strictly following the nurses' suggested exercises for his legs and back as he tapers off on the hard core drugs. Charts showing Dean's progress are taped to the walls along with John's hunt research, making the boy feel as though he's accomplishing something. He's walking mostly unassisted, albeit painstakingly slowly, by the middle of the second week and although he still tires easily, he can usually make it through the day on only one midday nap.

John supplies the best distraction and they ply him for news of the hunt at every opportunity. Two weeks into it though, there are still no breaking developments and John is beginning to get frustrated.

"Anything new today, dad?" Dean asks, stuffing a handful of cheetos in his mouth and licking cheese dust off his fingertips.

The boy is sitting up in his bed, supported by all the pillows in the room, having just finished a round of intense physical therapy under Sammy's watchful guidance. The cheetos are part of the lunch John had brought with him after spending an unfruitful night at the condo attempting to lure the vengeful spirit to her demise.

"Nothing." John shakes his head. "I tried to summon her last night. She was a no show. I haven't seen her since…" Trailing off at Sammy's frown, John unwraps the cellophane wrapped sandwich, takes a bite, and flicks bread crumbs from the front of his shirt.

Dean squirms uneasily and shoots glances between the two men. "Why did you want to summon her?"

"I found a dispelling ritual, but the ghost has to be present for it to work." The look John levels at Dean has Sammy's hackles rising, it's way too appraising. As if John can feel the disapproval dripping from his floppy-haired son, he stands up from his seat on the unoccupied bed and squares his shoulders, unconsciously defensive.

Sammy had really hoped for a fast resolution to this case. Every day those hopes sink a little more and he can sense his dad's growing determination to put an end to the spirit in any way possible. "No luck on a simple salt and burn, huh?" He has to ask even though he knows the spirit would already be no more than a bad memory if it were that easy.

"There has to be a body to burn and if there is one, I haven't been able to find it." Deflating, John walks to the only window in the room, shifts the curtain aside, and scans the street in front of the motel. There's nothing of interest out there and they all know it.

The hairs on the nape of his neck stand at attention, he has a bad feeling about the possible outcome of this discussion. Desperate to help find some viable and sane solution, Sammy offers, "Her clothing looked old-fashioned, like she'd been dead for a while. Why do you suppose she's only now beginning to haunt the condo?"

"It's got to have something to do with the new extension they built. I've investigated the site inside and out though and no one was ever buried there, no unusual occurrences have ever been reported. The local archives go back to the Oklahoma Land Grab when the land was originally settled and there's nothing, absolutely nothing." John turns abruptly, his frustration evident.

"There has to be something, what about old artifacts or antiques she might be attached to?" Sammy pushes the rest of his sandwich across the tiny table he's sitting at, takes a long pull from his soda can.

"Nope. Everything for those units is brand spanking new. Not an antique in sight." John sighs. "Good idea though." The man grudgingly adds as though he would never have imagined Sammy could have come up with such a novel solution to the hunting problem on his own. Sammy isn't offended, after all, John doesn't know that the wish gives him all the experience of the hunter he's going to be along with the advanced age. They've never discussed it.

"Well, she only goes after children, so that's a clue, right? Have you found anything linking the children to one another?" Sammy thinks he may have made a technical error in bringing up the 'children' angle, but really, there's no stopping this train and he's fooling himself if he thinks otherwise. Doesn't mean he's giving up yet.

At mention of the young victims, Dean stops eating and stares wide-eyed at his brother.

"You mean like great, great, great grandparents who all knew each other?" John quirks one eyebrow up in surprise.

Purposefully not looking at Dean, Sammy clarifies, "I was thinking more along the lines of commonalities like only blond children or only boys."

John shakes his head and rubs his eyes wearily. "Nuh uh, she's an equal opportunity kind of spirit. They have to be children, but there are no other distinguishing features. She doesn't discriminate."

"Why does she want to hurt kids?" The bewilderment in Dean's question sets Sammy's nerves on edge.

He wants to come up with an answer for his brother, some way to explain the unexplainable. "She says 'How could you do this?' It could mean she was hurt by a child or it could mean someone hurt her child and she's reenacting what happened, almost as if she wants someone to recognize her loss." All Sammy has are theories, nothing concrete.

"Could be either one, I have no way of knowing, especially since I can't get her to materialize." John sits on the edge of Dean's bed, careful not to jounce the boy too much. "There's one other thing I can try, but I've been putting it off as a last resort."

Sammy flinches internally. Here it comes.

"No, John, just…no." The warning is spoken menacingly. Sammy doesn't think he can stand to hear John put his plan into words. He hopes to spare Dean from having to hear his dad talk about him like he's a tool or a weapon to be pulled out and used when all else fails.

Jaw set, John regards Sammy challengingly. "Do you have any other ideas? I'm open to suggestions 'cause I'm all out."

Someone has to put a stop to this, someone has to be the voice of reason. "How can you even think about using him like that?" Pushing his chair away from the table and leaning forward, Sammy rests his elbows on his knees, every line of his body conveying an earnest need to get his point across. "Didn't you learn your lesson the last time?"

"I made a mistake, Sammy. Don't you think I know that? Do you think I enjoyed seeing my son tossed into a wall and knowing it was my fault? I'm not going to let that happen again."

John's on his feet and striding to the door, but Sammy leaps up to block his exit. No matter what he says, dad refuses to see a view different than his own and it infuriates him.

"But you do want to take him back there? Use him to lure the ghost out? Have you lost your mind? How are you going to stop her from assaulting him this time?"

"I'll do it…I…I'll go." Dean's cracking voice stills the fuming men like nothing else could.

In the heat of the argument, Sammy had kind of lost track of the fact that Dean was in the room with them.

"No, Dean, you won't." Sammy says, trying for firm and caring at the same time.

John nods at Dean. "It's not your decision, Sammy."

"If I go…I can keep any other kids from getting hurt, right? So, I have to go." Dean's appealing to Sammy, begging him to understand. He's not choosing dad over Sammy, he only wants to do the right thing.

Great, so he's outnumbered and Dean is playing the 'saving people' card. There's no winning against that combination. Sammy isn't ready to fold quite yet, however.

Rounding on John once more, Sammy exclaims. "You're not seriously considering letting him go with you. You couldn't possibly be that irresponsible."

"Watch it, Sammy, you're on thin ice. " John snarls like a grizzly bear staking claim to its territory. "You heard him, he wants to come."

"He's eight years old and you're his father." Incredulity clear in his voice, Sammy points a trembling index finger at his dad, mere inches from the man's chest. "You're supposed to keep him from getting into trouble, not shove him into it."

"And you're four, Sam. How much do you really know about this situation?"

"Do I look like I'm four?" Flinging his arms out wide and standing at his full height, Sam opens himself up to his father's inspection. John wants to treat him like an adult when it serves his purpose and like a child when it doesn't.

"No, you don't look like you're four, you're just acting like it."

John's words stop Sam dead in his tracks because he does feel like he's having a temper tantrum and the rage coursing through his veins isn't going to help anyone. Looking over at his brother he sees the boy standing on his bed, eyes glassy with unshed tears in sad contrast to the arms crossed over his chest in defiance.

So, if he can't stop them from hunting, at least he can go along for damage control.

To be continued.

**A/N: It helps my writing when I hear from you. Okay so I may have some self-esteem issues. Please leave me a review on your way out. Thanks for your ongoing support of this story!**


	12. The Hunt

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that. Warning for violence.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading, alerting, and favoriting this story, but especially thank you for reviewing. I am much obliged.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 12 The Hunt**

The exercises to strengthen his back and legs are repetitive, tedious, and leave him shaky and out of breath. In other words, they pretty much annoy the living daylights out of Dean. It doesn't matter how annoying they are though, he's going to do them to the best of his ability so he can get back into fighting form. He doesn't want to slow everyone else down.

Sammy and dad haven't said as much, but Dean can tell they're waiting on him and he doesn't like it, not at all.

The tension between John and Sammy always increases exponentially whenever John mentions the upcoming dispelling ritual and Dean gets the distinct impression that his hovering brother has been working diligently behind his back to postpone the family trip to the condo as much as possible. They don't fight overtly in front of him anymore, Sammy seems to have accepted John's ruling on this one, maybe not with good grace, but at least without any more heated words. Every once in a while, Sammy will follow John outside and when they return to the room, plans have been altered, ever so slightly, usually resulting in a delay of one type or another. Apparently, Sammy has a sneaky side to go along with his persistence. The persistence Dean already knows about, the sneakiness is a surprise.

Eventually, Sammy must run out of reasons to wait and they begin discussing the hunt in earnest, going over every possible angle, every eventuality, trying to foresee and plan for any and all tricks the spirit might have up her ghostly white sleeves.

"I've picked the perfect room for the dispelling ritual. It's in one of the new units, so it and all the surrounding ones are empty. No will hear us if this gets noisy." John sits back in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his chest. "No furniture to get in the way or be thrown at us either." A smug look sits heavily on his face, more for show than a represensation of his true feelings.

The ritual itself only has two parts, before the spirit joins the party and after. Dean has both parts memorized, his brother and dad have drilled them into his head many, many times. He knows they're worried about him and he resents still being a kid while Sammy gets to be a massive, fully-trained hunter. Talk about a poorly dealt hand. Dean has the worst luck ever.

"How do we keep her from attacking Dean before we get into the right room? We have to assume she can be anywhere in the complex and she's not going to give us the chance to get all set up." Sammy points out, glancing up from a book of local history on his lap. The book is one that John had brought back from his last trip to the library.

"No, I'm sure she won't, that's why I'm going to go in first, prepare the room and start the ritual. You'll stay several blocks away in the car, wait fifteen minutes and then bring Dean. I'll show you the room tonight so you'll know where to go. We should be ready to do this thing tomorrow evening when most of the condo residents are tucked in for the night."

Sammy nods and rubs a hand over his chin, stubble making a _scritch scritch_ sound on every pass.

Dean frowns at the way his dad makes it sound as though Sammy's going to carry him in like a sack of potatoes. How humiliating. He kind of wishes he had a bigger role to play then merely being present to lure the spirit. He has been told in no uncertain terms that he's to stay where they put him and keep out of the way. The order is crystal clear, leaving no wiggle room.

As soon as the street lamps come on, signaling full darkness on the designated night, all three Winchesters drive to a deserted school parking lot three blocks from the condominium.

Dad turns around to look at Dean in the back seat, cups the back of his son's neck in one large hand. "This'll be over in no time, nothing to worry about. Now, tell me again, what are you to do if she comes after you and your brother and I can't stop her?"

Dean answers from rote in a lifeless, put-upon voice any teenager would be proud of, "Run back to the car and wait for you here, you'll come for me as soon as you can." Running away sounds like such a cowardly thing to do and he's said as much to his dad on numerous occasions only to be shot down with a stern look. The man is emphatic and immovable on this point.

"That's right." Dad squeezes his neck once. "But only if the salt circle doesn't hold and Sammy and I are too far away." He refrains from mentioning any of the things that might keep the two hunters from being able to help Dean, but Dean knows.

The seasoned hunter gives his son a final pat and exits the car, grabbing the duffle holding necessary ritual ingredients and hunting equipment from the trunk. The duffle had been packed meticulously during the day and holds four binding charms, one for each wall of the room in the empty unit they'll be using to contain the spirit.

The charms are made of iron, about the size of a quarter, and they each hang from a thin iron chain. John will attach them to the walls as the first part of the ritual. Their job is to hold the spirit inside the room once she appears, making it impossible for her to phase out at any time during the dispelling process.

He also has with him a can of spray paint and five branches from a weeping willow tree which have to be burned inside a pentagram in the presence of the apparition. No one ever said these rites have to make sense, or maybe they did long ago and the meaning has been lost through the ages. John knows better than to fool around with a prescribed ritual though, they'll be following this one to the letter.

A rock salt loaded shotgun completes the contents of the duffle. A second shotgun lies across Sammy's lap. They won't do any permanent damage, but the salt rounds will sure hurt a whole heck of a lot since she won't be able to disperse and reform.

All three Winchesters carry a flashlight, holy water, rock salt, matches, and a simple iron dagger stashed in various pockets and pouches. The first four items are standard equipment, the last item is special. A cursory glance doesn't reveal anything out of the ordinary, a short triangular blade and nondescript handle. The etchings on the blade aren't visible until held at an angle and only another hunter would recognize the symbols for what they are, ancient banishing runes. It will only take one dagger piercing her dead insubstantial heart to end her once and for all. Three daggers might be considered overkill to some, to a Winchester it's just good business practice.

Fifteen minutes on the dot after John set out for the condo building, Sammy and Dean follow. For now, Dean is being allowed to trot along on his own, although, Sammy is keeping pace so close to him that it's a wonder their feet haven't tangled to send them sprawling on the pavement. The rigorous physical therapy is paying off and his stamina hasn't started flagging even once they reach the first set of condo units.

Security lighting illuminates the main complex, so Sammy nudges Dean wordlessly toward a patch of shadow and flowering shrubs decorating the beautifully landscaped property. They bypass the wrought iron fencing around the outdoor pool and Dean marvels at the way moonlight reflects on the stillness of the water, making it glow softly. The newer, unoccupied apartments are festooned in darkness, security lighting not considered a necessity by management until residents move in.

Sammy holds his shotgun in one hand and his flashlight in the other. Both are pointed harmlessly at the ground. They slow to a walk, Dean in front, Sammy directly behind him. Dean can feel his brother's vigilance searing into his shoulder blades. The lanky young man moves with a confident grace, hyper alert, eyes constantly moving. He guides Dean with quiet murmurs,_ turn left, around that corner, straight ahead_.

It looks as though they've eluded the phantasm, circumvented any child-sensing radar she may have. The door to the preselected condo where dad is busily preparing for the dispelling ritual is no more than twenty feet in front of them. Crickets chirping their evening serenade and traffic moving ceaselessly on the boulevard next to the condo are the only sounds carried on the warm breeze.

Dean's first clue that something's wrong is the way Sammy goes rigid behind him. He hears the muffled clank of Sammy's flashlight hitting the grass and then he's being hefted up one handed, his brother's long muscular arm digging painfully into his side and stomach, as Sammy barrels them both forward and through the partially open front door.

"She's here." Sammy warns, kicking the door shut behind him.

Dean still hasn't seen her, but he trusts Sammy to know what he's talking about and his heart speeds up like a motor boat engine's rapid thrumming.

"Get in here, quick!" Dad snaps from the first room to the left of the entryway.

From his vantage point against his brother's chest, Dean scans the room for signs of the spirit. A fire burns inside a spray painted pentagram in the middle of the room, casting a flickering, swaying light over everything and reflecting orange in his father's eyes. John is standing over the fire, feeding it pieces of kindling. The five weeping willow branches are within easy reach next to dad's legs.

Once he's had a good look and nothing immediately threatening appears, Dean presses his cast into the arm Sammy has strapped tightly around his middle. "Put me down."

Before he complies, Sammy jogs to one of the corners, lowers Dean to the floor, draws his iron dagger, and spins around to face the room at large. Dean finds himself in the salt circle John had drawn as part of his fifteen minutes of preparations and he has an awesome view of his gigantic brother's backside. In other words, he's got a defensive mound guarding him from, well…everything and he can't see what's happening unless he ducks and leans past his brother's hip.

"You saw her?" Dad takes a break from tending the flames to look up at Sammy.

"Yeah, she was watching us from the next unit over."

"Why isn't she here then?"

"Don't know. Maybe she's onto us. We know she's pretty old, she's had plenty of time to build up a truckload of hate and maybe she's figured out how these kinds of rituals work." Sam reasons.

No one speaks for a while and the descending quiet feels like a tomb. It's smothering and Dean's lungs don't want to expand properly, he struggles to take a full breath. He fumbles for a moment until he gets a grip on the handle of his rune-etched dagger, pulls it from its leather pouch. The dagger feels good in his hand like its weight alone can steady him, balance him.

An angry howl announces the phantasm's sudden presence in their midst and Dean almost jumps out of his skin. It's not because he's afraid, he just wasn't expecting the loud noise after so much silence. At least that's what he plans to tell anyone who asks.

She looks exactly the same as she did last time he saw her, shoulder length dark hair framing a chalk white face, lips pulled back in a feral grimace revealing black gums, kohl-like smudges under her eyes. Seeing her again makes Dean's spine twinge in phantom pain, makes him dizzy as he relives his flight through the air and his collision into the wall.

The ghost wastes no time on Sammy, instead her eyes lock instantly on Dean as if the formidable Sammy barrier doesn't exist at all. "How could you do this?" She screeches.

"Can you hold her off, Sam?" John calls over to them. He's arranging the dry willow branches in the fire, moving so quickly his hands are almost a blur. The familiar shape of a five pronged star made of five long wispy willow branches takes form and the tongues of flame begin to lick at them hungrily.

"Yeah, I got her." Sam's voice holds deadly intent. His body moves in tandem with hers as she dodges one way and then the other, trying to circumvent him to reach her prey.

Dean holds his knife close to his chest like a talisman, a ward against evil.

"Don't use the knife yet. The willow has to be ash first." Dad reminds when Sam jabs his dagger at the spirit to dissuade her from her sideways lunge.

Dean glances at the fire, sees the flames engulfing the central portion of the star formation and making their way down the length of the branches to the tips. About half of each branch still remain.

Sam must have hazarded a look as well because his focus waivers for a split second and the cunning ghost uses this opening to her best advantage. She yanks him up and flings him over her shoulder in one effortless movement. He lands on top of the fire, scattering embers and smoldering branches with flailing limbs.

Everything's happening so fast, Dean doesn't know what to do. The fire isn't big enough to do Sam any real harm, still Dean wants to rush to his brother, pat out any curling flames from his clothes.

"Dean, get down." Dad's aiming his shotgun with both hands directly at the spirit and the spirit is reaching a pale hand toward Dean's throat.

She gnashes her teeth together and wails her displeasure when her hand meets the line of salt and will go no further.

Dean's body folds to the ground automatically as though a button had been pushed at his father's command. He hears the blast from the shotgun and the ghost's wail of disappointment turns into one of anguish. Her face registers shock the moment it's evident she can't flicker away to regenerate. The salt round wounds don't bleed ectoplasm, but neither do they fade away.

Sam climbs out of the ruins of the fire. Although there are scorch marks on his jeans in a couple of places, Dean is relieved to see no major damage to his brother's skin. The willow formation is another story altogether. Pieces of the star are strewn haphazardly on the tile floor and most of the fire has sputtered out.

Abandoning her previous 'children only' rule, the spirit changes course and wraps thin merciless fingers around John's throat. Otherwise fragile looking digits dig ruthlessly into the hunter's neck.

Dean remembers the strength in those hands, gasps in empathy, and steps across the salt line. He can't stand there and watch his dad choking on the last dregs of air in his lungs.

"Stay in the circle, Dean." Sam yells, alarmed. Apparently deciding to take a chance on the dagger, despite the unfinished ritual, Sam plunges his blade up to the hilt in the ghost woman's back. It meets no resistance, no ribs, no muscle, just sinks into the spongy semi-tangible flesh.

Instead of disappearing once and for all like she's supposed to, the spirit tosses John aside and makes a grab for Sam.

That's it, that's all Dean can handle. "I'm sorry." He shouts. "Please, I'm sorry. I didn't do anything to you and I don't know who did, but I'm sorry they hurt you. They shouldn't have done it. Please stop hurting my family."

The ghost woman drops her hands to her sides, cocks her head, and looks at Dean as though seeing him for the first time. The dark smudges around her eyes disappear, the wild fury in her face is replaced with an ageless sorrow. She puts both hands over her heart and disappears.

Johns sits up weakly, staring at the spot last occupied by the spirit and rubbing at the abused skin on his neck.

Sammy stumbles over to Dean and by the time Dean can wrap his one undamaged arm around his brother he's clutching a sobbing four year old.

"It's okay, squirt, it's all over now. Shhh." Dean soothes, sitting on the floor and pulling the tiny boy into his lap. He continues to rock his little brother back and forth until his dad collects them both, Dean in one arm, Sammy in the other, and carries them all the way to the Impala, the duffle slung over his shoulder.

Once they're snuggled up in the backseat of the car, Dad says, "All right, tell me everything you can remember about the gypsy woman and the wish. I need to know more about this thing. It could be dangerous."

To be continued.

**A/N: Stay tuned for the search for the gypsy woman in the next chapter. This is the Winchesters, so nothing is every quite what it seems. Please leave a review!**


	13. The Gypsy

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that.**

**A/N: It has been brought to my attention that the last chapter wasn't very clear on whether Dean still has his cast or not. As you will see in this chapter, he does still have it and I went back and made some adjustments to the last chapter so there wouldn't be any confusion. Thank you for reading, alerting, and favoriting this story, but especially thank you for reviewing.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 13 The Gypsy**

John is so indescribably happy to have his youngest son back. He feels like Sammy has been returned to him after a long absence even though the boy has been with him the entire time. The difference between adult Sammy and child Sammy is like night and day though and having one feels like losing the other.

He's going to miss grown up Sam, no doubt about it. Having Sam around was as good as having a partner, someone to bounce ideas off of, someone he trusted to help protect his family, someone he could rely on. Even though they seemed to butt heads more often than not, the camaraderie had been worth it.

When Sammy first changed into an adult, John had missed the child and now that he's changed into a child, he misses the adult. The sense of loss makes his skin crawl, makes him want to know more about the wish and the gypsy who granted it. He doesn't understand what triggers it, not exactly, only a vague notion of 'when Dean needs a grown up Sam to help him' which could mean anything. A child's wish to be big enough to help his older brother doesn't give him much to go on. The randomness of his transformation, the unpredictability, is what makes it dangerous.

So, he needs to find the gypsy. Finding her should be easy enough, but John's not sure what he's going to do with her once he's got her.

He takes his boys back to the motel. It's late and they're tired. One more night in the motel to give them a good night's rest will do them all good. They'll leave in the morning once he has some idea of which direction to head in and he'll spend some time once the kids are asleep calling his contacts to see if anyone knows anything about gypsy wish fulfillment. Discretion will be important in talking to the other hunters; some of them are fanatics who see evil in everything having to do with the supernatural. John hates to admit he's normally in that camp, wants to believe he's still open minded enough to see some purity and light left in the world. It gets harder every day and to be fair, he's never seen anything good come out of anything touched by the supernatural.

He'll need to keep the specifics of why he wants to know under wraps when talking to others until he can determine exactly what's going on.

"C'mon, let's get you two ready for bed." John opens the back door of the Impala and shepherds both boys into the motel room.

They look wiped out, but Sammy isn't crying any more. The waterworks were the result of a four year old trying to deal with the terrifying events of the evening and have subsided to a few sniffles under Dean's calming influence. Neither boy seems to have sustained any additional injuries.

Dean shuffles awkwardly over to his bed, Sammy glued to his side. The smaller boy has yet to release his death grip on his brother's unbroken arm, reluctant to be separated from his source of comfort, as though Dean is his own personal security blanket.

John wants to check Sammy over for burns resulting from his flight into the small ritual fire and he figures bath time will be the perfect time to do so while also giving him a chance to reconnect with his youngest, besides Dean needs a break from his little brother who is attached as firmly as a barnacle to the side of a boat. "Dean, go lay down while I give Sammy his bath."

"No, I want Dean a do it." Sammy's face scrunches up, tears already threatening. The youngster is overly tired, bringing out the demanding side of his personality.

"It's okay, I'll give Sammy his bath." Dean somehow brings his sling across his body so he can gently curl the fingers sticking out of the cast in his little brother's hair. The fingers are grimy, accumulated dirt from three weeks of inadequate hand washing due to the cast cling tenaciously to the thin digits.

John frowns, not liking the insubordination. "Dean's cast will get wet, if he gives you your bath, Sammy. You don't want that do you?"

Blinking wide hazel eyes and looking up, Sammy turns the full force of his pleading gaze on Dean.

"I'll put a plastic bag over it, squirt. No worries." Dean quickly assures Sammy and uses his own not inconsiderable pleading gaze on John.

So much for his bright idea to pry the two boys apart. This wish and the resulting events have forged an even stronger bond between his sons. Not two months ago John would have laid down money that it wasn't possible for those two to become any closer. He would have lost that bet. Separation is obviously not going to happen now without World War III breaking out and none of them have the energy to spare on a battle.

"Fine." John huffs.

He helps tape a plastic bag over Dean's cast and maneuvers a squirming Sammy out of his sooty, charred clothing and into the tub filled with warm sudsy bath water. As long as Dean is part of the process, Sammy submits to the bath, so the older boy sits on the edge of the tub and rubs a soapy wash cloth along chubby arms and legs. The little boy still carries some baby fat. Clean skin reveals no tell tale red burn marks, in fact, the little boy made it through the ordeal without a single scratch.

It comes as no surprise to John when Sammy insists on sleeping in Dean's bed and Dean has no objections. Since the plastic bag is already taped over his cast, the older boy takes a quick shower before climbing exhausted into the bed. Sammy tucks up against his brother's side and Dean flings an arm protectively across the little boy's shoulders. They're both asleep almost immediately.

Sighing heavily, John watches his boys and marvels at the comfort they give each other so freely. He's glad they're close, they're going to need each other. Hunting is much easier when you have someone you trust to watch your back. A hunting partner is a luxury he only rarely indulges in.

Thinking about the few people he trusts to watch his back reminds him of the phone calls he needs to make. There's a pay phone across the street at the convenience store. He checks the salt lines at the door and window, grabs his wallet and motel key, and glances at his sons once more on his way out the door. The most trusted of his contacts are at the top of his list, Missouri, Bobby, Pastor Jim. He'll work his way down the list from there until he's got every scrap of information any of them know about gypsy legends. This might take a while.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Early morning light filtering into the motel room through gauzy curtains finds John already awake with a bunch of information on gypsy lore and a lead on the traveling carnival. Obtaining the itinerary for the carnival had been as easy as he'd thought it would be, not even remotely tapping the depths of his sleuthing skills. A call to the shopping center near their old apartment had netted him the name of the operating company for the outfit and a contact name and number. From there he was able to get a list of dates and cities for the carnival's next stops. As it turns out, they're scheduled to be in College Station, Texas tomorrow, a mere seven hour drive from Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Most of the information he had garnered so far on gypsies had come from Missouri, which made a lot of sense since Missouri had spent some time honing her skills in a gypsy camp when she'd been younger. The psychic had never heard of gypsies being able to grant wishes, but she had known some of the gypsy legends and had been able to tell him a lot about their lifestyle and culture.

John makes one more phone call from the pay phone to let Mr. Niland know the spirit has been taken care of and to direct the condo manager to forward his payment to one of John's many post office boxes.

The boys are up, dressed, teeth brushed, and their few belongings packed in no time flat. They know the drill.

Breakfast for growing boys is a necessity and a nearby IHOP looks clean enough to be acceptable. The pre-work crowd has already come and gone, leaving the majority of the tables empty. The only other patrons are two young women, infants in strollers at their sides, sipping coffee and talking quietly a few tables over. A plump woman wearing a blue and white checked apron and her grey hair pulled up in a neat bun on the top of her head comes to take their order.

"My name is Linda. I'll be waiting on you today. What can I get you fine young men this morning?" She asks, smiling warmly.

Dean has the huge laminated menu open in front of him, having rejected the children's menu at first sight. "Pancakes and bacon." He announces with a grin. "Please."

"I want the same as Dean." Sammy wastes no time placing his order and then bounces happily in his seat.

"Big brothers are cool, aren't they? I bet you want to be just like yours, don't you?" Linda stage whispers to Sammy as though she's sharing a great secret.

The dark-haired boy shoots a sideways look at his big brother and nods solemnly.

John orders eggs, sausage, toast and coffee for himself, milk for the boys, and hands all the menus to Linda with a soft thank you.

After the waitress leaves, the younger boy's mouth pops open in a round O. "Did you remember to give Dean his pills this morning, Dad?" The words sound so strange coming from the tiny child and if it weren't for the voice, which is at least an octave too high, John would have sworn adult Sam was back.

The tips of Dean's ears flush pink as he looks down at the table. "I don't need them anymore." He mumbles.

There's no reason for Dean to be embarrassed, he was never embarrassed by Sammy administering his medication, but he clearly is embarrassed by the thought of his father taking over the responsibility. John wonders what the difference could be and then decides he probably doesn't want to know. Sometimes it's easier to just take things at face value. "I'm depending on you to tell me when you need more pain meds, Dean. You understand?"

"Yes, sir." The older boy fingers his paper napkin, licks his bottom lip.

When their food arrives all three Winchesters eye the plates approvingly. They've been eating mostly from the convenience store for the past three weeks so this food looks heaven made. John digs in with gusto and it takes him a couple of minutes before he notices Sammy trying to cut his pancakes into bite-sized pieces using his knife and fork. He lacks the manual dexterity to complete the task, his chubby little fingers just can't handle the implements precisely enough and the longer he tries, the more frustrated he becomes.

It's never been an issue before and John suddenly realizes that's because Dean normally cuts up Sammy's food for him. Dean can't cut up Sammy's food one-handed, he can't even cut up his own food and is currently using the edge of his fork to divide his pancakes into large chunks.

The family dynamic has been ruffled. Sammy has become accustomed to doing things for himself as well as for Dean and Dean doesn't automatically jump to do everything for his younger brother anymore. It may take some time to fall back into their normal roles. In the meantime, John stops eating to help both his sons chop up their pancakes.

At the end of the meal, Sammy licks sweet sticky syrup from his fingers then wipes them on his shirt. Dean clucks his tongue in disapproval, wetting a napkin in a glass of water and carefully cleaning each of his little brother's fingers. So maybe the family dynamic won't take long to restore after all.

Widening his eyes dramatically, Sammy jerks his head up and says, "Dad, is the mean ghost lady really gone?"

"Yup, she's really, truly gone." John assures the little boy. He'd checked the area thoroughly with the EMF meter to make sure before carrying his kids to the car last night.

Dimples appear in the boy's cheeks as he smiles. "Oh good, then I can take Dean swimming in the pool 'cause I told him I would when he was feeling better and now he's feeling lots better, right Dean?"

"When did you tell me you'd take me swimming, squirt?" Dean asks, looking perplexed.

The older boy doesn't remember, he'd been in too much pain and on a cocktail of medication when an adult Sam had tried to distract him with promises of future fun in the pool they'd glimpsed at the condo. Dean doesn't remember, but John does and apparently Sammy does too.

"We can't go to the condo, we have to hit the road, places to be, people to see and all that." Wiping his face with a napkin, John stands up and pulls his wallet out of a back pocket.

A scowl appears on Sammy's face, his little brows knit together. "But why?"

Explaining the whys and hows has never been one of John's strong points. It's a waste of time, not to mention effort. He has his reasons, good ones, and his kids should respect him enough to accept his reasons without question. The sign of a true leader is the trust he inspires in his followers. "Never mind why. You boys go get in the car."

Dean is quick to get out of his seat and take Sammy's hand to lead him out to the car. As they move through the nearly empty restaurant, John hears the younger boy say, "I told you I'd take you swimming and now I can't so that's a lie. I don't wanna be a liar, Dean."

"It's not a lie if I don't remember. It doesn't matter, we can go swimming some other time." The older boy responds.

Depending on the outcome of his finding the gypsy wish giver, they may be spending some time in Texas or they may be following a traveling carnival or they may finish up rapidly and be on to something altogether different. Long range plans are impossible to make in his line of business, but finding a swimming pool somewhere along the way shouldn't be a problem. John makes a silent vow to stop at a pool once Dean's cast comes off in another couple weeks. Summer will be well under way by then.

The drive through cattle country to College Station is humid and hot. Heat waves shimmer on the asphalt, always in the distance, disappearing by the time the Impala reaches the next dip in the road.

Their destination is the city park, a large field surrounding a man-made lake, and they arrive in the late afternoon. A dozen ducks paddle aimlessly from one edge of the lake to the other. One end of the grassy field contains some playground equipment, the other end is completely open. John assumes the carnival will set up in the open section when they get to town in the morning.

Since he doesn't know how long they'll have to stay in the area and they're running low on funds anyway, John decides they can hunker down in the car for the night. A driving tour of the town takes only half an hour. He buys hamburgers and ice cream at the local Dairy Queen before returning to the park and shooing the boys out of the car to run through the grass, chase each other over the playground equipment and feed the ducks leftover potato chips until they're sweaty and tired. It's good to see them both laughing and enjoying themselves. Dean's still not as fast on his feet as before his back injuries, but he's getting there, healing up nicely.

No one bothers them and as darkness falls they curl up for the night, Dean and Sammy sharing the back seat and John taking the front.

The carnival pulls in at dawn the next day. John closely watches roadies erecting tents all across the once empty field. The fortune teller's tent goes up near the ticket booth. Not long after, two women approach the tent, a young woman with long red hair hanging in ringlets to the middle of her back, and a much older woman wearing a scarf on her head. They both have long skirts and white blouses.

John wakes Dean up and the boy confirms the older woman is the gypsy who granted Sammy's wish.

This could go several ways, the gypsy could confess to what she's done, she could deny it, she might try to flee, or she might become violent, wielding power or magic unknown. John studies the two women, tries to get a feel for their nature. They don't strike him as sinister. Of course, he doesn't trust them, but he doesn't think they're going to start casting spells the minute they see him either.

He wants to capture the gypsy's honest, genuine reaction to seeing the two boys, doesn't want to give her any warning or give her time to school her expression.

"C'mon boys. Let's go talk to your gypsy." John puts a light tone in his voice so they don't get nervous.

Fisting his eyes, Sammy leans into his brother's side sleepily and blinks up at his dad. "Is she here?"

In reply, John takes each of his sons by the hand and walks toward the red and white striped tent and the two women standing in front of it.

The older of the two senses their approach first. She looks at them and gasps, a trembling hand flies up to cover her mouth. As soon as they're within talking distance she says, "Oh you poor babies, I'm so sorry. Please believe me, I had no idea."

To be continued.

**A/N: We'll find out why the gypsy woman apologized and find out more about where the wish came from and where the real danger lies in the next chapter. Please let me know what you think. Are you glad to see some wee!Sammy or do you like adult!Sam better? I love your reviews, love them! And I promise to respond with answers to any questions you have or insights into my writing process.**


	14. The Black Imp

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading, alerting, and favoriting this story, but especially thank you for reviewing. I love hearing what you think.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 14 The Black Imp**

The gypsy woman frantically motions them to follow her, takes them to a mobile trailer away from the hustle and bustle of rides and stalls being erected all over the park grounds. They stand right outside, shaded from curious eyes and ears by the hulking vehicle. She introduces herself as Giselle and the younger lady as her granddaughter, Sasha, and then she starts telling them a story, words pouring from her mouth in a torrent, as if she can't get them out fast enough, as if she can diffuse a bomb if she can only talk fast enough.

Dean listens as hard as he can because from what he's able to understand of the gypsy's tale, Sammy's wish, made with all the good intentions and sweet devotion of a naïve child, is about to bring a maelstrom of evil down upon their heads.

She tells them of her grandfather who grew up in Romania, of his encounter with a black imp, who was a terrible enchanter, how her grandfather stole a wish from the creature, how the imp's rage burned so hot it boiled the lake near his village, and how it vowed to take the wish back, along with its revenge, no matter where her grandfather went.

"My grandfather left the village after the lake boiled." She explains. "He was so frightened, he got on an ocean-bound vessel the very next day. It didn't matter to him where the boat was going, all he cared about was getting as far away as he could. A series of boats and an excruciating journey finally brought him to America. He never used the wish for himself, too scared the imp would be able to track him once he used it. Instead, he passed the wish on to me with the condition not to use it myself or give it to anyone close to me, figuring the imp would never be able to track it once it had passed to someone completely unrelated to our family."

John's eyes are blazing, crackling hot and Dean doesn't think he's ever seen his dad so angry, which is really saying something. "Let me get this straight, you gave that wish, a black imp's wish, to my son. You gave a wish everyone in your family was terrified to use, to a small child and then…what? Just hoped for the best?"

Sasha steps between John and her grandmother, hands on her hips, matching his blazing anger with indignant fury. "Hold your horses, where do you come off yelling at us? And Gamma, why are you telling them our old folktales? They're just stories, none of it is true. You've been telling me that story for as long as I can remember."

Blowing out a harsh breath, John ignores the red-haired woman. The man is acting as though the strange, fantastical story is the real deal and he's taking it all very serious - deadly serious. Dean wonders what his dad knows that he's not saying.

"I wish…I mean I pray to heaven it wasn't true." The older woman blanches at her first choice of words before she continues. "But now I know for sure. He's coming. I can see it. There's no way to stop him." She looks at Sammy where he's wandered off to chase a frog and her face expresses a dreadful sorrow, as though Sammy's fate is preordained, like he's already dead and she knows it's by her hand.

When the tiny boy looks up at Dean, grinning wide and triumphant, frog in hand, Dean feels his throat close up so tight he almost puts his hand on his neck to ease the constriction. Even though his brother is only a few feet away, suddenly it's too far and Dean motions him to come closer, wraps his uncast, functioning arm around the boy's slender shoulders and pulls him possessively against his side.

"Who's coming? What's going on?" Frustrated at being ignored, Sasha stamps her foot.

"The black imp. He felt the wish being used and it's drawing him to the one who used it. He wants the wish back and he'll take it no matter the cost. I'm so sorry. I didn't realize in time. I never would have given it to anyone if I'd known, much less these precious boys."

"What do you mean 'no matter the cost'? What does that mean, exactly? And how can this imp take the wish back? The wish has been used, it doesn't exist anymore." John's anger takes a back seat to his hunter instincts. Information is key during any hunt and Dean can sense the hunter in his dad rising to the surface, gathering every relevant clue.

"No, no, you're wrong. Wishes never cease to exist, but to take one back, once it's been used, is a terrible thing. Terrible." Leaning into her granddaughter, the gypsy woman squeezes her eyes shut tight.

"This is nuts." Sasha mutters, nevertheless, she places one arm around the older woman's frail waist.

John's focus never wavers. "Terrible in what way? How can a wish be taken back…or away…or whatever?"

The adult conversation holds no interest to Sammy and he begins to squirm in his brother's rigid hold. Dean doesn't let go.

"A wish like the one your son made, one truly made from the heart, becomes a part of that person, an inextricable part. The imp will be able to take the wish away from the boy, but to do so…it'll have to kill him." At this, the gypsy sobs in a shuddering breath, collapsing further into her granddaughter.

A stiff wind kicks up right at that moment, tossing Sasha's long mane of ringlets around her head.

There must be some kind of misunderstanding. There's no way the gypsy said what Dean thinks she said. No way, because if she really said some creature has set its sights on his Sammy, wants to kill his baby brother, well…certainly dad would be more upset. Dean can't figure out how his dad can be so calm, how Sammy can be so carefree, how the sky can be so bright. Not when they're living in a world where such a thing might become a reality. It's surreal.

"Okay, that's enough!" Sasha firms her hold on Giselle and moves to open the trailer door with her free hand. "This conversation is over."

The older woman looks dazed, but she shuffles toward the door at her granddaughter's gentle prodding.

The trailer must belong to these women, or possibly just to Giselle, her home while she travels from town to town, reading fortunes as a part of the carnival troupe.

John puts a hand on the door, keeping it closed. "Wait. We need to know more. We need to know everything you can tell us. You did this…you have to help us." His voice is cold and brittle like ice.

Sasha presses her lips together in thought, stares at John then gazes at the two brothers. Her eyes soften. "Let's go inside and sit at least." She concedes.

The inside of the trailer is as colorful as the gypsy herself. Ornate paper lanterns hang from the ceiling and pillows of every shape and size cascade from the sofa onto the floor. A small kitchen area contains a miniature refrigerator, a couple of cabinets, a microwave, and a table which only seats two. Once all five of them have crowded into the tight living quarters, Sasha indicates for John and Giselle to sit on the sofa while she and the boys take seats on pillows on the floor. Sammy bounces on his pillow and giggles, not yet catching on to the stress emanating from everyone else.

"The worst part is…" Giselle continues as though she had never been interrupted. "The wish made by the one brother is linked to the other. Because the younger used the wish to benefit, not himself, but his older brother…you see. It binds them together, heart to heart, loops and tangles around and through them both until its impossible to see where one ends and the other begins." She weaves her fingers together and clasps them so stiffly her knuckles turn white. "When the imp seeks to remove the wish, both boys will die, their bond will not allow one to live without the other."

A tense hush falls on the small group and even Sammy ceases his playful bouncing, glancing from Giselle's red-rimmed eyes to Dean's bitten lips, to his father's flared nostrils.

"For the sake of argument, let's assume any of this could be true." Sasha breaks the uncomfortable silence. "Gamma, what makes you think this black imp is coming?"

"I can see it on them." The gypsy woman flaps a worn hand between Dean and Sammy. "The black imp's mark…the mark of death. It wasn't there the first time I saw them and now it is. He knows they used his wish and he's coming to get it. He's already marked them and it won't take him long to find them." She whispers, voice breaking.

"That's not going to happen." Standing at his full height, John glares down at the older woman. "What options do we have? Can they unmake the wish? Can we stop the creature?"

There's no mistaking the determined set of John's frame, nor the confidence in his bearing. After contemplating the hunter's questions, Giselle seems to come to the conclusion that John is not a man to underestimate. She straightens from the defeated slump she had adopted and her voice is steady when she says, "There's no way to unmake the wish, but you can kill the imp. The hard part will be getting past its defenses. It's a creature of strong magic and it will use it's illusions against you. It can delve into your mind, find your deepest fears, and make you live them in vivid clarity. You'll only see what it wants you to see, believe what it wants you to believe."

The three adults continue to talk and Dean's concentration is split. Half of his attention is on the gypsy woman while she shares every piece of lore she's ever heard about imps, the black imp in particular, as well as anything she can see about their futures. The other half is thinking about everything he's heard so far. His head is spinning with rage-filled black imps and fearful illusions and binding wishes and it's all too much, too bizarre. The fact that his dad is taking it all in stride makes the situation even more astonishing.

It doesn't take much longer for John to finish up with the two women. They all decide the black imp will most likely leave the fortune teller and her granddaughter alone since they no longer have the wish and neither of them had a hand in stealing it in the first place. Giselle sees nothing in her own or Sasha's future to cause her worry. Her farwell is a final warning, "Be prepared. It'll try to separate you, use it's illusions to divide and conquer, picking on anyone left behind and vulnerable. Stick together."

John tells the boys he's taking them to Bobby's. Although their hunter father likes to keep his family on the move, there are a few points to be made for having a home base of operations like Bobby's place. For example, Bobby has protection sigils carved into the foundation of his house, protections from all types of supernatural stuff, including illusions. Also, John's friend has accumulated tons of knowledge in the form of ancient texts, scrolls, maps, and equipment which he keeps in his house. Once they get to Bobby's they'll have resources and time to shift through it all looking for a way to defeat the black imp, assuming the creature truly is coming after them. Dad makes a phone call before they leave to let Bobby know to expect them and to be ready for trouble in the form of a furious illusionist which Dean is really pretty sure Bobby isn't too happy about if the loud expletives coming from the phone are any indication.

It's a long two day drive from the park in Texas to Bobby's in South Dakota, stopping only when absolutely necessary for food, sleep, and bathroom breaks. Dean has plenty of time to think when he's not trying to keep his fidgety little brother occupied. He doesn't like the sound of illusions that make you see things that aren't there because if he can't tell the difference between what's actually happening and what he believes is happening he won't be able to defend his brother.

It's his job to take care of Sammy, so it's his responsibility to find a way to see through the illusions and keep his little brother safe. End of story. Enchanter or not, the black imp isn't getting close enough to touch one tousled hair on Sammy's head, not if Dean has any say in the matter.

Of course, he doesn't know how to see through illusions. Maybe there's a trick he can learn or a skill he can master to allow him to see only the truth. Dean's still pondering this when they pull onto the dirt road which is more of a long driveway leading to Bobby's salvage yard and house than anything else as no other businesses or houses are located along the path.

Dust plumes up behind the Impala and then the world is plunged into darkness. The car lurches forward, tires grinding through gravel and sand. Dean can't see his hand in front of his face, but he hears his father howl and the sound is unlike anything he's ever heard before, making his spine tingle worse than nails on a chalkboard. He's slammed into the door as the car fishtails and nothing makes sense. There's no sound coming from Sammy's side of the car, no crying, no call for help. Panicked, Dean stretches his hand into the space where he knows his brother is sitting, or should be sitting. He gropes until his fingers curl around a small wrist and relief smoothes the edges of dread stealing over him. If this is an illusion cast by the black imp, he needs to remain calm and try to see the truth. He needs to hold on to Sammy.

The car has stopped rolling, dad has stopped howling, and there's a fetid dank smell Dean has only ever smelled in the musty basement of a house they once rented. Sammy's wrist jerks in his grasp once, twice, and then it's wrenched away from him. Dean hears the scrape of claws on concrete and the snapping of jaws and then Sammy is screaming. The little boy's terrified cries slice through Dean's sanity. "Sammy!"

None of this can be happening, none of it can be real. Dean's locked in a nightmare he can't escape. He recognizes the nightmare as one he's had frequently, but this time he can't wake up. His breath comes in short, shallow bursts. Even though he doesn't remember getting out of the car, there's open space around him and his brother's voice is getting further and further away. Following the sound of Sammy's plaintive yelling, Dean takes off at a full run. "Sammy! Hold on, I'm coming! Sammy!"

The darkness surrounding him is absolute, pressing in on him until he swears it's clogging up his nostrils, until he can taste it in his throat. He's blind, can't make out the first shape or even a sliver of light. Obstacles in his path cause him to stumble and fall over and over again.

Tears are streaming down his face. A sharp twinge in his back sends spikes of pain shooting down his legs and his cast in its sling bumps hard against his chest. He can't breathe through the frantic pace of his heart and he knows he can't catch up to the creature.

In the distance, Sammy's screams cut off.

Utterly alone, that's when Dean's screams begin.

"NO!"

To be continued.

**A/N: I'm going to be in Vancouver at the VanCon next week. Anyone else going to be there? Wanna try to meet up? I've never been to one so I don't know how to go about finding you, but would love to try, PM me. **

**Care to guess what's going to happen next? Hint: Next chapter from Sam's POV. If you can spare the time, please give me a little feedback. Your reviews mean the world to me.**


	15. The Illusions

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that.**

**A/N: The Vancouver convention was amazing, really beyond my wildest expectations! In fact, I signed up right then and there to go back for next year. LOL All the stars were funny, sweet, entertaining, and really good sports. Of course, seeing Jared and Jensen in person was…there are no words, actually. I do have to note that even though the photo ops with Jared were sold out long before the conference (as were Jensen's obviously); Jared made time in his schedule to stay longer to open up additional slots for photos with him. I think this says a lot about him as a person and as a performer. I still love them both, but I'm just saying. To see my picture with Jared go to my Live Journal name Disneymagics with an s on the end****. I look pretty pleased, don't I?**

**This chapter tells the story of the black imp's attack from Sam's POV.**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 15 The Illusions**

Sammy's never been afraid of the dark like other little boys his age, but then again, he's always had his big brother sleeping in the bed beside him to keep the bad things away.

So, when the world suddenly goes dark as pitch around him, Sammy doesn't panic immediately. Not even when the too-loud sirens begin blaring. He knows Dean is sitting right next to him and Dad is in the driver's seat in front of him. His faith in his big brother is boundless, after all, Dean's like Batman; he can do anything. Dean has always been there to patch up every one of Sammy's scraped knees and sooth every one of his fears.

There are family rules that dad has told him over and over. Dean makes learning the rules fun though, he makes up games that always start off 'let's play pretend'. These rules never change and Sammy remembers them now – stay quiet, don't let the monster find you, wait for Dean or Dad to come get you, the Winchester version of 'don't talk to strangers.' Hunching down in the foot well, Sammy makes himself into the smallest ball he can manage and thinks about how proud Dean's going to be of him. 'Let's play pretend and see how well you can hide from the monsters' is an easy game when you're as small as Sammy, there are always lots of tiny crevasses to hide in for someone his size and he's always been good at the game. Once, Dean looked for fifteen minutes, finally finding Sammy wedged into a cupboard in the kitchen, his only clue the rattling of a pan knocked askew by a misplaced foot. Dean had given him an extra cookie for hiding so well that time.

The Impala slaloms an erratic pattern down the dirt road and then shudders to a stop. Wind picks up outside the car, flinging pebbles and grit into the windows and metal sides of his hiding spot. The unexpected pinging noise so close to his ears startles him out of his crouch. At the first crash of thunder, Sammy loses his resolve to stay still and quiet. _A storm, Sammy hates storms_. With a yelp of terror, he reaches across the bench seat, seeking the sure and steady comfort of his brother in the face of the fast approaching storm. The swirling wind, wailing siren and intermittent thunder all seem to be playing a game of 'who can be the loudest' and they're making Sammy's head hurt. He doesn't like that game. He thinks Dean will probably still be proud that he lasted as long as he did on his own 'cause Dean knows he's a little bit scared of loud stuff.

A familiar hand, Dean's hand, wraps around his wrist and Sammy is just about to crawl across the seat to press tight into his brother's warmth when the car door beside him opens and a cold, scaly arm grabs him around the middle, heaving three times until his slight contact with Dean is broken. A monster's got him!

Sammy screams bloody murder, but the clammy grip on his small frame only tightens. He scratches frantically at the arms holding him, squirms in an attempt to sink his sharp baby teeth into whatever monster body part he can reach. Getting back to the safety of the car and his brother is his only goal. Nothing works though and he's being carried further and further away from Dean.

Raindrops begin to lash his skin, quickly filling his open mouth as he continues to yell for help. He's sopping wet within seconds. Closing his eyes helps to keep the water from sloshing into them and since it makes little difference in his ability to see anything, he keeps them closed. Something long and slimy flickers against his neck. Sammy imagines a snake's tongue, like the ones in the tall grass next to the creek Dean took him to once. The thought makes his eyes snap open while he slaps his hands onto his neck. Nothing's there.

As his hopes of getting himself free fade, his fear grows. Soon he's nearly mindless with terror and he just wants his brother to come help him.

A door opens in front of him, yellow light pouring out with a man-shaped silhouette in the center. It's the only thing visible in a sea of darkness and it looks strange appearing there in the middle of nowhere. Sammy stops screaming while he tries to figure out what the doorway can possibly mean and in the next instant he's being carried across the threshold and dropped to the ground.

Scrabbling away from the monster behind him, Sammy looks back. He expects to see a hideous creature, the one that carried him here, all covered in wicked scales with maybe a snake's head and large eyes that stick out on the sides of its head, but there's only his dad. Another man, wearing a beaten-up ball cap, stands at the door. It takes Sammy a couple of shocked seconds to recognize his dad's friend, Bobby, from the last time they'd been here to visit, only a couple of months ago. They're in Bobby's house, his front hallway just inside the door, and all the noise has stopped. The silence after the almost deafening siren and thunder makes his ears ring uncomfortably.

As soon as they're inside the house Bobby slams the front door shut. "Where's Dean?" The grizzled hunter demands.

His dad says nothing, instead kneeling on the floor next to Sammy where the little boy is still sprawled after being dropped, watching him like he's waiting for something to happen.

Sammy doesn't know what's going on or how he got inside Bobby's house with his dad or where the monster went or why he's dry now, as if none of the past twenty minutes had happened at all. His breath hitches in his chest and he fights to keep the tears from coming, fights to be brave like Dean would want him to be. As it is, several fat teardrops roll down his chubby checks and drip off his chin anyway.

"John, where's Dean? He's not still out there is he?" Bobby's gruff voice, filled with concern, cuts through Sammy's confusion.

_Dean_

His insides churn as though he's on a rollercoaster doing spectacular loop de loops. His dad backs away from him and yet gets closer and shrinks until they're at eye level with one another and Sam realizes the transformation has occurred again…he's a grown up. This time though, it feels a little like manipulation and he gazes at his dad appraisingly.

Whereas a moment ago he could only long for his big brother to save him, now his sole thought is for Dean's safety. Dean, who is now out there alone. Dean, who is currently at the black imp's mercy. A creature which, from what the gypsy told them, has no mercy. No mercy at all.

Sam climbs carefully to his feet, having to get the feel of long muscular limbs once again. Bobby's eyes are round as saucers and the man watches him warily. His ball cap is pulled so tight onto his head it looks as though even a tornado couldn't dislodge it. Sam's pretty sure the experienced hunter is trying to judge the fastest route through his house to the holy water stashed in various strategic locations.

Instead of making a dash toward his weapons though, the man says, "You're Sammy? Little…Sammy? Huh. Well, kid, your daddy told me something about this over the phone, but…I guess this is something you just have to see to believe." Bobby claps him on the back and just like that the older hunter has accepted Sam as a part of the team and turned to fix hardened eyes on John. "So…Dean?"

Sam guesses that if John has seen enough to make him a believer in all things supernatural, Bobby has probably seen three or four times as much, maybe more. He's grateful that they don't have to spend time explaining his transformation in more detail because there are way more important things to be worrying about at this moment, namely Dean. Bobby obviously has his priorities in the correct order. Sam has yet to truly wrap his mind around what's going on, but Dean's in danger. That much is crystal clear.

"Dean's still out in the car. We need to get him out of there." Sam's long strides get him back to the door quickly, but before he can grab the doorknob Bobby steps in front of him.

The frown on Bobby's face can be seen through all his whiskers. "Wait, you two came in here lookin' like the devil himself was on your heels. Am I right in thinkin' the enchanter is already here then?" He asks.

"He is." John confirms. "It was more than a little tricky getting Sammy into the house. Kid bit me like a feral cat." His dad ruefully holds out an arm to showcase several bite-sized welts. "Not to mention the illusions I had to make my way through. I bascally had to disregard all five of my senses and just walk towards where I thought the house was. That imp must have thrown every spell he could think of at me. I'm just glad the wards around your house are in such good shape."

There's something really bothering Sam and even though there's no time for this, he needs to know. "But Dad, why didn't you bring Dean in too? He was right there, holding onto my wrist."

"I couldn't get to him." His dad answers then turns to Bobby. "Do you have anything we can use against the illusions? Have you found a way to kill a black imp?"

Sam doesn't think his Dad is telling the truth, not the whole truth anyway. He thinks the real answer may be much more troubling because here's the thing, his dad's nothing if not practical and three full grown, capable hunters are better than two, especially when you're dealing with an unknown assailant. Unfortunately, he wouldn't put it past the man to bet on Sammy's wish kicking in as soon as Dean was left in danger. The thought leaves him nearly shaking with rage. His hands close into fists and he breathes noisily through his mouth a few times. It's a close call and he's not sure how, but he manages to restrain himself from punching dear ole dad's lights out. He can do that later. They have to rescue Dean first.

"Yeah, I've got something." Bobby leads them to the kitchen where a bottle of greenish-brown liquid sits on the counter. "Problem is…we have to drink it and wait until it's had time to start working. It'll prevent us from being affected by the illusions. I don't know how long it'll last though, that's why I haven't swallowed any yet myself, didn't want it to wear off before y'all got here."

Sam's frustration mounts and he slants an incredulous look at his father. "We don't have time to wait! The black imp's out there with Dean right now, doing I don't know what to him. If you were able to bring me in without that stuff, we can go get Dean without it."

"We have a better chance of getting him out of there successfully if we do what Bobby says." John matches Sam's volume and grabs the bottle off the counter, taking a long pull and then handing the bottle to his friend.

Bobby also drinks from the bottle, puts a restraining yet understanding hand on Sam's shoulder, and shoves the bottle into the younger man's chest. "We'll get'im. Your brother's going to be alright."

There's no telling what the concoction is made of and it tastes vile, but Sammy belts it down like it's a shot of hard liquor. "How can we tell when it starts working?"

"Look out the window. What do you see?" Bobby answers while shoving papers aside on a dinette table so he can open one of his dusty books.

Sam pulls back the kitchen curtains to get a view of the front of Bobby's property and huffs angrily. "Not a thing, it's still dark as night out there. I can't even see the car, no way to know if Dean's still in it or not." He can't help but think about the storm, the rain, the noise, the reptilian beast, all the illusions he had experienced. They'd felt completely real to him while he'd been out there in them and yet…none of that had actually happened. He wonders what Dean's going through, if he's scared, if he's hurt, if they'll get to him in time.

"Keep lookin'. When you can see the yard again, I reckon that's when we know it's workin'." The man finds the page he's looking for and points a permanently grease-stained finger at the entry there. "Here's what we're up against."

Both John and Sam crowd the small table. A picture on the page captioned simply 'Imp' shows a bizarre creature that looks like a cross between the funny Martian with the bulbous head on that old black and white sitcom they watch sometimes on grainy television sets and one of Santa's elves.

"They ain't but so big, no more than two feet tall, and they're definitely mortal." Bobby leaves the room and returns with a knife and a handgun, passing both weapons to Sam as he and John are already similarly armed. "I don't think there's any trick to killing it once you can see it. They use the illusions to hide themselves and to cause confusion. Most of them are just mischievous, but a black imp's a different story. They get down right vicious," the hunter concludes.

Crossing back to the window after securing the weapons on his person, Sammy figures he can listen to the other two hunters continue the discussion and keep an eye on developments in the yard at the same time. That way, he'll know as soon as possible when they can go get Dean and put an end to the black imp threat. If what Bobby says is true and the imp is only two feet tall, it won't be able to physically move Dean. The boy should still be relatively close by, maybe still hunkered down in the Impala, if they're lucky.

A prickling, not quite painful, sensation centered near his heart makes Sam gasp in a sharp breath. It feels as though something is curiously playing with the very fabric of his existence, pulling at the gossamer strands to see if he'll unravel.

The imp's attack has started in earnest. Somehow, through their bond maybe, Sam knows the creature has Dean and is trying to extract the wish that binds the two of them together. Apparently, at least in this case, it doesn't need the wish maker to extract the wish when it has the person the wish was made for.

They're out of time.

Sam presses a hand over his chest as though he can physically keep his heart from being shredded. "It has Dean," he chokes.

John comes up behind him, braces Sam's suddenly swaying body with his own, supporting him. "I can see the scrap yard. The potion's working. We need to move out, now!" His dad's military background is evident in the command.

Steadying himself against the windowsill, Sam risks a quick glance outside. Sure enough, there's a hazy light filtering through heavy cloud cover, but no rain. The Impala sits at a strange angle about half way down the long dirt driveway. It's a miracle his dad was able to find his way to the house through the illusions and darkness, especially with the acrobatic twists and turns the car had performed there at the end. The man must have an incredible sense of direction and an internal compass like no other. Though he strains to see into the car, there's no sign of Dean, not even his dark blond hair sticking up from the back seat of the car.

Bobby reaches the front door first, swinging it open on rusty hinges. All three hunters, guns at the ready and ever watchful, race toward the Winchester family's vehicle. Dean's not in it.

Sam's hopes take a nose dive.

"Split up. He's got to be in the scrap yard somewhere. Holler if you find him." John orders briskly. Sam wonders if his dad is talking about Dean or the black imp. He's getting awful cynical where his old man's concerned.

They each take a different path through the piles of metal and rubber. If Dean is completely caught up in the imp's illusion, he most likely won't hear them calling his name, but that doesn't stop them from trying.

"Dean! Where are you , kiddo?"

"Dean, make some noise so we know where you are, son!"

"Come on out, Dean!"

Hub caps and tail pipes liter the ground along with every other car part imaginable. A Ford pick up truck blocks his path so Sam detours to the left.

Once he gets around the truck, he sees his brother.

The boy is laying spread eagle on his back. A pixie-like creature sits on his torso, it's fingers moving in intricate patterns above his chest.

An electric charge jolts Sam's entire body. The gossamer thread of earlier is now a wire being ripped through his rib cage. The imp must have found the connection forged by the wish and has started to extract it.

As he brings his gun arm up directly in front of himself and sights along the barrel, Sam realizes he's shaking too hard to get off an accurate shot. With Dean underneath the imp, he can't take the chance of a miss. "He's here." Sam shouts instead, firing a warning shot into the air.

It's enough to startle the imp. The gleeful expression on the tiny creature's face turns hostile and then surprised when it sees Sam looking straight into its eyes. It scampers off Dean and Sam takes a shot at it now that it's no longer hovering over his brother. A squeal tells him he clipped the imp, but it keeps on moving and disappears around an overturned pile of tires, heading further into the scrap yard.

The wire in his chest stops trying to rip its way out of his heart. Sam rubs a hand across his chest, feels the unraveled ends knit themselves back together. His bond with Dean is intact, the wish still belongs to them. So why isn't Dean moving?

Sam falls to his hands and knees, crawls to rest of the way to his brother's inert body, and pulls the child into his arms.

Dean's finger's twitch.

"That's it. You can do it. Open your eyes for me, Dean." Sammy gingerly wipes at the tear tracks left on Dean's dirty cheeks while he talks to him softly.

He counts Dean's shallow inhales and exhales. On inhale number five, Dean's glassy green eyes open. As soon as the boy's wandering gaze finds Sam his face crumples, like just seeing a grown up Sam makes him realize how terrible his ordeal had been. Or maybe a grown up Sam makes it all right for Dean to be a kid again, to be the one protected and guarded from harm.

"Sammy." Dean buries his head in Sam's neck and curls up into his embrace, shaking with the sobs wracking his frame to pieces.

Sam holds all the little Dean pieces together as best he can. He loves this little boy with all his heart and it kills him to know how Dean's life is breaking him apart.

The boy seems to know who he's with now, which must mean the imp has stopped bomb barding him with illusions, intent on its own escape. Something to be grateful for.

When John and Bobby come running from two different directions, Sam points to where he last saw the imp heading without taking his attention from his brother.

"Take him back to the house, Sam. It's safe in there. We'll take care of the imp." John instructs.

Sam nods. There's a hollow emptiness inside him. He doesn't really care about the imp anymore.

To be continued.

**A/N: So, this was another Sammy transformation chapter, always a challege to start off with a very young voice and change halfway through to an adult voice. If you can spare the time, please give me a little feedback. Your encouragement helps more than you can know.**


	16. The Curse

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me, but I'm OK with that.**

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who has shown an interest in this story. I have incredibly mixed feelings about finishing it. On the one hand, it seems as if I've been writing it forever and it has gotten quite long. It needs to have an ending and Sam and Dean deserve a break at this point. However, I'm going to miss them like crazy!**

**I Wish I was a Growed Up  
****By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 16 The Curse**

John looks at his boys and is struck at once by just exactly what he'd gambled with. He had put his two most precious possessions on the line as though they were commodities in a high stakes game of chance. Yeah, the gamble had paid off, they're both alive, Sam is grown, and the imp is now on the defensive instead of on the offensive. He feels a sense of deep relief, accomplishment even, in that he was able to determine how the wish would respond to a certain situation. There's something satisfying in knowing he was able to trigger Sammy's transformation, make the wish react to him instead of the other way around.

And yet…his boys look shattered.

Sam has Dean tucked up against his torso and under his chin, the only visible parts of Dean are the toes of his sneakers. The way Sam is wrapped around every possible inch of his brother makes the young hunter appear to be hiding Dean away from the entire world, no exceptions. John can just barely hear the muffled sobs coming from his first born son. They sound like the very epitome of heart-wrenching grief, reminding John of a vulnerability he doesn't want to think about in connection with either one of his boys, but especially not Dean.

Sam's face shows a combination of utter despondency and an all-encompassing resolve bordering on obsession. It's a strange combination, to say the least.

Guilt steals across his mind, briefly trashing his composure. John shakes it off as an emotion he can't afford.

After urging Sam to get Dean back to the house, John takes off after the imp, Bobby at his side. There's a blood trail to follow, thanks to Sam's last gunshot. The sticky, green slime coats everything it lands on as though it were some kind of tree sap. John swipes some of the imp's blood off the hood of a beat-up red Mustang in passing, smears it between his index finger and thumb, and grimaces when the stuff sticks like glue.

"Maybe not the smartest thing, touching that gunk." Bobby raises an eyebrow and gives John his patented 'idgit' look.

It's not difficult to figure out that Bobby disapproves of the way John has handled this threat to his family's welfare. The gruff hunter has never been hard to read and he has a soft spot the size of Texas for John's kids. Other people, even those he considers friends, should really learn to mind their own business where his kids are concerned. John keeps his own counsel where they're concerned and he has no use for anyone else's opinion.

John grunts a noncommittal reply and rubs his hand on the seat of his pants, succeeding mostly in gluing lint to his fingers. Fantastic.

The blood trail ends at the edge of Bobby's property where several large oak trees clump together. Squinting up into the branches from a conservative distance is futile; the leaves are so thick and the trees are so closely entwined, it's impossible to see further than the outermost limbs. Still, the safe bet is on the imp being up there and if the creature has stopped running, it must have some plan of action in mind.

As soon as the thought occurs to him, John's vision dims and he hears a sound like maniacal laughter reverberating inside his head. "You hear that, Bobby?"

His friend takes a step forward and begins circling the stand of oak trees. "You don't want to know what I'm hearing. I suspect it's not the same for you. The potion's starting to wear off. We need to end this." Bobby's curt voice clips through the haunting chortles.

Of course, John thinks, the imp's most effective weapon is its illusions. When injured and cornered the shifty little elf-like creature is going to fall back on what it knows best. So, it must be lurking in the branches, relying on the illusions to confuse its enemies. Little does the black imp know, the illusions are only partially effective as long as the potion continues to help the hunters see through them. Advantage goes to the hunters until the potion wears off completely.

Perceiving reality through the illusions is like looking through a window at dusk and seeing whatever is on the outside of the window while also seeing a reflection of whatever is inside at the same time. Two images overlaid on top of each other.

With the knowledge that time is not on their side and that the black imp probably won't hurt them physically, concentrating as it is on a mental attack, John marches into the small glade, gun pointed upward into the leafy canopy. "Cover me," he calls to Bobby just in case.

At first, John assumes the chittering sounds of amusement are coming from the imp, but then he realizes it's the same weird laughter from before. The disturbing thing about this illusion-based humor is the familiar quality of it. He knows that laugh – it's his own – the way his laugh might sound once he's completely gone 'round the bend to crazy town.

An icy shiver flows from the base of his skull all the way to the bottom of his spine. John has a new appreciation for the term 'spine tingling'. The fortunetelling gypsy wasn't lying when she said the imp would use their greatest fears against them.

Only a little sunlight penetrates the cloud cover and the patchy green foliage of the oak trees. John peers through the gloom, ignoring the strains of his own insane mirth and the darkness shading the edges of his vision. Bobby joins him in the shadows a moment later.

"There." Bobby points and John gets his first glimpse of the black imp as it swings from one branch to another, shunning the rare motes of sunlight for the darker recesses of the thickest branches. The spell-casting creature dances and hops, spins and dodges, one second easily visible, the next second all but hidden from sight. John's not certain whether the frenetic movement is a part of creating the illusions or just a personality quirk, not that it matters either way.

His gun tracks the imp as it weaves a crooked path among the tree tops. If it would just stay still for…one…second.

The bullet pierces a greyish-blue shin and the imp falls from the branches, landing almost at John's feet. Illusion spawned maniacal laughter fades away leaving only the harsh panting of the injured creature in its wake. Squinty eyes regard John from an itty-bitty stub-nosed face.

Speaking rapidly in a sing-song voice, the imp tries to strike a bargain in a last ditch bid for its life.

_Let me go free  
__Or forever cursed you will be  
__To grow less and less fond  
__Of your sons and their bond  
__For the pain they do cause  
__Will give you reason to pause_

Too late, John realizes the imp isn't bargaining, it's casting a curse, a curse with an escape clause for itself built in.

From the cryptic lyric, John gathers he has two choices, either release the black imp, allowing it to continue its crusade against his children, or suffer the ramifications of the imp's curse. The curse itself doesn't make a whole lot of sense; something about pain caused by his sons with no explanation for how or why. But it doesn't matter, there's not really any choice to make here as far as John is concerned.

He raises his gun, pulls the trigger, and shoots the creature twice between its squinty little eyes. Satisfied with this outcome, John gestures at the remains. "Light'im up."

While Bobby starts up a bonfire featuring blackened imp charred to a crisp, a low grade headache settles into John's sinuses. He doesn't think much of it, chalks the throbbing up to the smoke and the greasy smell coming from the bubbling flesh.

Bobby is the one to bring up the curse during the trek across the yard to his house. "You know you've got a curse to deal with now, doncha?"

The question is mildly irritating, obviously he has a curse to deal with. He also has two boys to raise and protect, a compulsion to avenge his dead wife, the continuing uncertainty caused by his youngest son's wish and unpredictable transformation, and no steady job. Not to mention the growing rift between himself and both of his sons. There's no shortage of things he has to deal with. "Yeah, I figured that out all by myself."

Eyebrows raised in exasperation, Bobby grumbles, "Well, good for you. I guess you don't need my help then. I can sit this one out, is that right?"

"I don't believe I said that." John inclines his head in mute apology. "I get that it's a curse…just not sure what it means." The pain in his nasal cavity spikes and he presses his thumb and forefinger into the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Well, if you ask me, which I know you didn't," Bobby frowns, but it's only to keep up appearances. "I'd say that headache you're nursing is gonna get worse and worse the closer we get to the house."

Opening one eye to gaze at his friend, John questions, "What makes you say that?" It's nearly impossible to get anything past Bobby. John should have known the headache wouldn't escape his notice.

"John…" Now Bobby sounds genuinely sympathetic. "The curse is a fairly standard one even if the rhymes were…unusual."

"Spit it out, Bobby."

"The source of the pain is Sam and Dean. They're in the house. The closer you get to them, the worse the pain will be." Bobby's heavy hand falls onto John's shoulder, a steady pressure. "I hope I'm wrong, but that's my working theory."

John runs through the imp's last words, nods slowly, and starts walking toward the house again. This changes nothing. It's not as though he hasn't lived with aches and pains of one kind or another before, he can live with this. He's not going to let some poorly thought up rhyme keep him away from his kids.

They get back to the house to find a still-grown-up Sam on the couch humming softly to Dean, who is fast asleep on his lap. From the fistful of Sam's shirt tangled tightly in the sandy blond-haired boy's hand, it appears as if Dean had been clinging to his brother even as he succumbed to exhaustion. Clinging as though his very life depended on maintaining his grip. The sight makes John doubt some of his choices in a way nothing else ever has.

The humming breaks off as Sam looks up at his father.

Bobby stares at the two boys for a full minute then excuses himself to review his research on spell casters. He doesn't mention the curse and neither does John.

"Looks like someone's all in." John remarks, a warm smile playing along the corners of his lips despite the grinding ache which has spread to his forehead and temples.

"Cried himself to sleep." Sam levels a significant glare at John.

They both speak quietly in order not to disturb the sleeping boy, but Dean doesn't so much as twitch.

Stepping closer and resisting the urge to rub a hand across his forehead to ease the pounding, John reaches out to take Dean off Sam's lap. "Should get him into bed." Now that he's really looking, he can see how pale Dean is, how puffy the skin around his eyes is, how his freckles seem to have multiplied.

Sam halts his father with a shake of his head. "Naw, he's good where he is. Don't want him to wake up later and think he's alone." The fierce set of Sam's jaw contradicts the lazy drawl. "You know, the imp had plenty of time to terrorize him while we were waiting for the potion to start working. He needs some reassurance."

The accusation isn't lost on John, but he's too bone weary and anxious about how the imp's curse is going to play out to be antagonized. Mostly he wants to revel in the fact that the danger represented by the imp is gone and his family is safe. So, he tries to lighten Sam's oppressive mood. "If you revert to your four year old self right now, he's gonna squish you."

John's attempt at humor falls flat.

"About that…I've been thinking and…well…I haven't changed back yet, have I? I'm thinking he must still need me like this." Sam sighs and brushes his fingers through Dean's fine hair. "Yeah, I'm thinking about leaving and taking him with me." _Getting him away from you_ is implied.

"No!" The word is out of John's mouth before he has fully processed what Sammy's trying to say. Sam can't mean what it sounds like he means. "No, that's never going to work. How's that going to work, Sam? No, it's too dangerous for you two to be out there on your own. You need me." _I need you._ Denial spills from John's mouth in an unstoppable torrent and Sam couldn't have scalded him any deeper if he'd rammed a red hot poker into his gut.

"Dean used to need you, he idolized you, dad. You know that, right? He would have done anything for you, followed you anywhere. Now though…now, I think he'll come with me willingly if I go. I think he's ready to leave."

At this point, Sam shifts his brother higher against his chest and angles his head into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. Dean makes an unhappy fretful noise, but subsides almost immediately, never really waking up, when Sam shushes him. A matched set, even with all the physical differences between them, these two boys fit together and the bond between them is so self evident that there's absolutely no denying its existence.

"What happens if you revert back to a child? What then?" John scrubs a hand roughly through his hair. "Don't do this, Sam. Please…just. Don't do this. You two are all I have; it's just the three of us." He knows he sounds desperate and it's not like him to become an emotional puddle in front of his kids or anyone else these days. It's not as if he can't stop them or track them down and drag them back if he has to, but he doesn't want things to get that bad between them, he doesn't want their relationship to be broken beyond repair and that's exactly where they're heading.

Silence follows his plea as though Sam is giving it due consideration. They both watch Dean sleep, the way his eyelashes fan lightly across his cheeks, the way his breath puffs softly from his slightly open mouth. Sam presses a palm to his brother's cheek, adoration, pure and simple in the gesture.

Finally, Sam says, "You don't know how close I came today. I was so close to hauling off and decking you. You so deserved it too."

It's a little off topic, but John thinks maybe it's a step towards reconciliation.

"You can still hit me, if it'll make you feel better." He offers.

Sam's face scrunches up and he looks off into some middle distance. "Sometimes I wonder how much of mom's love Dean remembers. Does he remember what it feels like to be nurtured; does he remember downy soft kisses to his temple just as he falls asleep and whispered lullabies? I think he does 'cause it's like…he's trying so hard in his own way to show me what that kind of love feels like. He gives me everything he can, everything he's got, and between the two of us…you and me…he's losing himself. We've got to give him something back."

Then John smiles because Sam just said 'we'. It's all the opening he needed.

~*Two weeks later*~

They're in Beaufort, North Carolina, a quaint little town on the coast, where they book a room at a motel on the wrong side of the road from the beach because the rates are cheaper. The major draw for this particular motel is the swimming pool. It's not as large or as luxurious as the pool at the condo, but that's hardly the point. There's a diving board and the water is clear and clean, smelling of chlorine and other pool chemicals.

Dean gets his cast off at the local doc in a box in the morning and by early afternoon he's thrashing happily in the deep end of the pool. Sam, who for some unknown reason has remained in his grown up form ever since the black imp attack at Bobby's, throws his laughing brother into the air as high as he can and Dean cannonballs back into the water, making the largest splash he can achieve. There seems to be no end to the game in sight as Dean demands to be tossed again and again, each time calling "Higher, Sammy, higher."

They both try to entice John to join in the fun, but he's perfectly happy to watch from the shade of an umbrella covered deck chair, notes for the hunt he's working on stacked between his knees. It's a compromise of sorts, one that's working pretty well.

He's getting used to the constant headaches. Sometimes he seeks refuge in a longer than necessary trip to the library or extended errands, but for the most part, the pain is bearable and it's a price he's more than willing to pay to keep his kids with him.

For dinner John gets carry out from the deli next door. They eat poolside, just because they can. Dean finishes his meal first and jumps back into the pool, sending a spray of water over the concrete edge to splatter his dad and brother. He grins up at them in childish delight.

The very next morning, Sammy wakes up and he's four years old and his big brother fixes him a bowl of Lucky Charms for breakfast.

The End.

**A/N: I'm deeply moved by all of the story alerts I've received on this fic and for those of you who would like to see more, there will be additional stories in this 'verse, so be on the look out for upcoming posts in the Wish 'Verse. My plan is to show the continuing effect of the wish, John's curse, and the brothers' bond on the family as time goes on and the boys get older.**

**If you can spare the time, please give me a little feedback. Even if you haven't reviewed any of the other chapters, I'd love to hear from you on this final one. And I really appreciate those of you who have taken the time to review every chapter!**


	17. Chapter 17

Just in case anyone is still interested - the third story in the Wish 'verse is in progress and currently two chapters have been posted with a third chapter on the way. It's called Bonded and Broken and follows approximately one year after The Reason I Live and two years after I Wish I was a Growed Up.

*hugs*


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